


A Mean City for Losers

by badAquatic



Series: Elvish Americana: An Eclectic Study of Fae in North America [2]
Category: Elvish Americana, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: African-American Folklore, American Folkore, Attempted Murder, Drug Dealing, Extortion, Fae & Fairies, Folklore, Illustrated, M/M, Murder, Recreational Drug Use, Seelie Court, Smuggling, Unsafe Sex, Unseelie Court, Urban Fantasy, crime boys doing crime things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-12-15 08:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11802468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: Not only does the Jersey Devil exist, but Tops sucks his dick in a junkyard while high off his ass. Things escalate from there.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

This used to be a paper mill city.

Along the river were mills for miles, sucking up water and spitting out paper. Printing paper. Wrapping paper. Writing paper. Drawing paper. Book paper. Paper fueled the city and kept people in jobs.

This is not a story about paper mills. This is about what is left.

The warehouses that stored chugging machinery shut down for good and what was fashionable enough to be converted into lofts were sacrificed. What remains are eyesores. The city planners don’t know what to do with them, don’t want to devote time and energy to dealing with them when they need to run for reelection, so they turn a blind eye and go for industries that spit up cash quick. Fracking. Pipelines. Computers. Casinos.

Wickerson Paper. Constructed 1803, shut down1942. It’s been empty so long not even animals and rough sleepers want to piss on its dusty floors. The bottom level’s a moor of used needles and human waste. The upper levels are saved only by the rusting death trap that used to be the stairs and the walkway missing wooden boards. Only one room’s intact and that was for upper management. The boss’s name was ripped off the door when the factory went bust.

Maybe it was a grudge. Maybe someone _really_ needed that metal.

In this room is a boy, though to say a ‘boy’ is a gross simplification. Physically he is well into puberty with its stringy muscles and hormones blemishing otherwise perfect skin. Chronologically, he is forty years too old to appear this human.

But that’s a human way of thinking.

This adolescent has black curls and wears a flouncy aqua shirt. Plastic necklaces are roped around his neck and colorful rings on his fingers. He has stubble because he’s determined to grow a beard. His incisors are sharp and a fang juts over his lip; a childhood overbite never corrected. His eyes are pointed. He wears heeled boots to make himself taller and walk with less of a slouch. The top of his head is covered by a purple bandana. His skin is dark olive.

In one hand is a wood cane with two bells (silver and gold) hanging off it and two feathers (pink). He is never without the cane.

The adolescent lives in barebones surroundings. There is a sleeping bag, hundreds of plastic containers sitting in the sun or hiding in a garbage bag, and a small stack of weathered books. There is a large broken window and the wind whistles through it, bringing the smell of the landfill and highway. After years, the smell doesn’t bother him. Not anymore. He is looking over what’s in his backpack, checking and double checking his supplies.

He doesn’t have a clock but he has a good sense of time. The moon’s high and he can see the slowing movement of traffic out by the highway. That means that it’s getting closer to midnight as the mayflies start heading home.

The adolescent grabs a gray hoodie with _Magic Bottle Rockets_ with a grinning rocket blasting off into space. He isn’t sure if it’s a sports team or a store. The material is thin but it’ll keep him from freezing his ass off. Just because its autumn doesn’t mean its cold.

The adolescent looks at the moon and feels the magic vibrate around him. Magic surrounds every fae, dusting their body like ashes from a volcano. He only has to breathe it in and he pulls the magic in, settling like a second skin. He pulls _everything_ into himself—staff, backpack, clothes, hair, hat—and then feathers sprout out of his body. He shrinks and warps and the adolescent is a crow.

This boy/adolescent/crow is Tops and he is going to a party.

Tops flies across the highway, keeping his seagull eyes out on the lookout for anything. High above the city, it’s hard to tell where humanity begins and fae starts. When he gets lower to the ground, he can sense the crisscross of what is placed where in his own way. He gets to the ground and changes over to his own shape, inhaling stagnant air.

Tops stands in the middle of a landfill. How long the landfill has stood, Tops isn’t sure though he has his personal estimates. He only guesses because no one talks about the landfill outside of all the things you’re told not to do there. It’s a forbidden place—a very human place—but that doesn’t mean the fae have carved out their own spot. As long as magic works, the crisscross of what humans can and can’t see will always be a place for them.

After doing so much business, the smell and sights of the landfill don’t even bother him. Admittedly, Tops has little to complain about given his own negligent hygiene. Now, he finds the whole place benign and--frankly--boring. At least the humans have the courtesy to organize the landfill into stacks of recyclables and natural materials, instead of just tossing it all around. Car parts in one area and plastic mounds in the other.

Tops has a mental map of where he is supposed to be. He turns a corner at a pile of analog TVs and another at computer monitors and keyboards. There are several rusting cars that have been stacked and piled like a metal Stonehenge, forming a tunnel that worms its way through the landfill. It’s a rickety structure made with even more rickety magic but Tops has no means to distrust it. Yet.

Inside, music thumps and lights shine out. Guarding the entrance are two bored looking fae that are of the common mixed breed, with the same olive skin and pointed ears that Tops shares. The difference is that their eyes are black and there are hints of scales and gills, so there’s a possibility they’re a mix of something common and exotic. Yemaja with mbon or diwata with peri. That’s just going on looks alone though.

“Is Worth in?” Tops asks.

One mixed-breed looks at him and nods. “Yeah, he’s expecting you.”

They step aside and Tops walks in. Bodies are moving together, listening to the music coming out of the old boombox. A sweaty tengu grinds against a mbon, both of their eyes clouded over with alcohol and hormones. They’re definitely rebellious nouveau riche, hanging out with mixed-breeds in the “wasteland” as the old rocks call it.

Worth is in the far back of his ugly clubhouse. He is mixed breed of unknown pedigree—his dark olive skin is still too pale for a highbred Seelie. His most prominent traits are the ruddy cheeks and long nose of tengu blood. He’s groping the tits of another mixed blood fae; some genetic mishmash with blue skin and an even more blue tail. Likely she’s hulder with blue oni or rakshasa.  

“Tops! My main man!” Worth laughs, “When I hit you up, you weren’t around. I left you a message, but I wasn’t sure if you were gonna show up.”

Tops shrugs. “I keep my appointments. Its part of good business.”

“That’s why I like you, man!” Worth grins. “It’s a _real_ party tonight. Even got some Unseelie to hang.”

Tops can’t tell who is what at this class level. Highbreds ooze magic like incontinent slime molds but this bunch of halfbreds and mixed bloods don’t. The lines between the courts blur once you start having interracial relationships all over the globe.

“What you got for us today?” Worth asks.

Tops offers a thin smile. “Let me show you.”

Tops clears energy drink cans and plastic cups off the stack of cardboard boxes and milk crates serving as a coffee table. The fae have their own alcohols but nothing beats energy drinks for the best kind of high. A can of Redbull and half a cup of ashen nettles tea will get you off better than a teen human on a gram of coke.

Worth grins as Tops puts the case down and opens it. Inside the backpack are plastic bottles and Tupperware containers with labels taped onto them. Inside are crushed up spices, powders, seeds, and flakes of every hue.

“That’s it?” The blue floozy scrutinizes the label of a plastic container. “‘Steak seasoning?’”

“What’d you expect?” Tops asks, “I can’t exactly walk around with my supplies labeled for everyone to see.” He points at the various bottles.

“Yeah, we got enough of a time dealing with the nosey legionnaires at the court, babe.” Worth chuckles, “You want them jumping down our throats for this?”

The blue floozy nods and her yellow eyes are back at the bottles. “So what do you really have for candy?” and she gives Tops a toothy grin.

“I got classics and I got new.” Tops says. “Waves, Musk, Morph, Sapphire, and Lupus…” He holds up a small Tupperware of orange and white flakes. “This one’s brand new: Chrono. Ocean herb boiled in Josta. Snort a thimble of this and you’ll be sitting on a gold cloud getting a blowjob from Queen Titania herself.”

“Who’s that?” asks Worth.

“Queen Tits? Probably a bluesie star.” Snickers the blue floozy.

“She’s a queen. _Was_ a queen.” Tops says.

“Never heard of her.” Worth points to a single green nut in a plastic bottle. “What’s this one?”

Tops suppresses his annoyance and focuses on what’s in the bottle. “Mirage.” he says eventually, “It’s bloddio nut cooked down with dawn parsley and Jolt Cola. New stuff.”

 _Deadly stuff,_ he almost adds but that would break the deal. Worth is a new money baby and that makes him a bored adventure junkie. He’ll chase a thrill but not into an early grave.

“Hey, let’s try that and the Chrono.” says the blue floozy, “I wanna motorboat Queen Tits.”

“Titania.” Tops corrects.  

“How much for it?” Worth asks.

Tops deals only in bumps and human currency because madstones are too risky. For Mirage and Chrono, Tops gets ten bucks. When the money is in Tops’ sock, he takes out a xacto blade from his jacket and cuts up what he has. A slice of Mirage for Worth and Chrono for the blue floozy. They both get crushed on a large hand mirror that looks older than everyone else in the clubhouse, with a faux-gold carved with runes.

The blue floozy grabs a straw from the floor and shakes it free of Red Bull. She raises an eyebrow at the mirror. “Where’d you get this hokey thing from?”

Worth considers the mirror. “I think Grandma gave it to me before she kicked the bucket. It’s got some magic but I don’t remember what.”

“You can’t ‘taste’ it?”

“Don’t care enough to try.”

Tops waits to see the reactions and keeps his body language in check. Too rigid and they’ll know he left the mix too cook too long and it might not work at all. Too relaxed and they’ll think they’re being scammed. Maybe he’s paranoid but so are drug users from time to time. Better to err on the side of caution than risk a beating.

The blue floozy takes the bump in one go. Tops smirks when she gasps “Holy fuck!” as silver blood spurts out her nose. She rubs her nose, eyes dilated like a tiger’s in the dark. A few seconds and the floozy must be smelling the deepest part of the Atlantic seas, seeing things that only sea-hags know and singing the praises of their bloodthirsty gods.

Tops can’t stay to see Worth’s reaction. This party is a business occasion for him and he can’t spend it standing still. He moves through the clubhouse, hitting up Worth’s friends and hanger-on’s both inside and outside the Court. He doesn’t know all their names, but he knows what’s most popular. Most of them don’t want to do the harder drugs but they’re willing to smoke marijuana-snakeberry blunts or chew shrooms. Human pills do jackshit for fae but there are plenty who trade in them. Char-men and pukwudgies won’t touch money but they’ve made an economy of barbiturates and codeine.

It’s one in the morning when Tops closes up the ‘shop’. He takes a mini-bag of chips and a can of soda bobbing in the cooler. By now, the party has mellowed out. The music is still playing but no one’s paying attention to it. Whoever was playing DJ is stoned and if there’s fucking to be done, the dance to put that in place is already happening. Worth is secured in the back with blue floozy and Tops…well, he has no interest in watching strangers fuck. 

He heads to the back of the clubhouse, passing by a stained couch where an elf is trying to get into the shirt of a dover demon. Tops doesn’t understand why dover demons are this year’s ‘hot ticket item’ that everybody wants. Where the fuck do you even kiss them? Far as Tops can tell, they don’t even have _mouths._

Tops turns a corner and finds the stairs in the back of the clubhouse, made of blocks of crushed soda cans. The stairs curve and lead to other rooms in the elaborate hangout spot. Instead of the rooms, Tops heads onto the open-air balcony. It’s ten feet from the ground and doesn’t offer him much in terms of the horizon. The landfill is as dull as ever: miles of tall stacks of compacted human refuse, plus the loose piles of gods know what.

The most interesting thing is the clubhouse really. When Worth’s not being an impulsive junkie, he can spin a spell or two better than most brats. He’s taken the landfill’s cans and the junkyard’s abandoned cars and scrapped metal and used them to make something useful. Every inch of wall and floor are parts of ancient machinery, with the holes plugged in with hardy slime molds and the tough grass that grows out here. It’s in good condition for the rough work he’s done.

So now Tops in a 1938 Ford sedan with the top torn off. Its back seat is hanging off the ledge, making Tops feel almost like he’s floating on air. He drinks a beer and thinks about how he’s going to spend his money. He’s pulled up all his growing crops and now he either needs to plant for winter or consider pulling up shop. He _should_ find a less shitty place; maybe one with an unbroken window and a real door. Hell, even plumbing would be nice so he wouldn’t have to give discounts to creek beasts for his water supply.

Still, that’s not something he can solve right now. The beer is fucking gross but it makes him more relaxed. Drowsy. He considers taking a nap when he hears footsteps. He sits up and sees a fae stepping onto the balcony. He has vibrant red hair and curled horns. Their leather wings are folded close to their body and a bony tail whips back a forth.

Tops raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

The jersey devil acts coy, pretending not to have noticed him first. He saunters over to Tops, steps into the car. He sits in the front seat, looking at him. 

“Same to you, though I just got here.” says the jersey devil, “Heard you’re the ‘candy man’ for this crew.”

Tops shrugs. “I do business. Nothing too shabby.” He looks into the devil’s smoldering eyes. “You looking for something sweet in particular?”

“No names come to mind.” The jersey devil flicks his tongue. He makes a show of tasting the night air but Tops’ eyes are on its length and texture. It’s the kind of tongue that’s been on more adventures than the average one. “What you got, candy man?”

“Not much left in stock, though I got two blunts and buttons left.” Tops rolls his fingers and produces a blunt, holding it up to the devil. It’s a sleight-of-hand trick the humans do but it's always impressive to the customers. “Roadweed, tobacco, and perfumed harlequin. On the house since it’s such a nice night.”

The night is the same as any but Tops is always a good businessman. The jersey devil gets into the back with him and takes the blunt. Tops takes his own and lights it for them both. The air smells of the forest and the smoke is blue with green sparks. Every breath gives off fireworks and the smell is more heavenly than anything angels could promise them. The bitter tobacco makes the perfumed harlequin really pop and sizzle against it and the roadweed is just perfect for the color and the feeling.

In the haze of smoke and the unusual warmth of the autumn night, Tops kisses the jersey devil. He smells like evergreen sap and brimstone, both hellish and earthy. The rest of the devil’s body is red-brown skin and hairy like any beast. The car rocks as Tops unbuttons the devil’s loose shirt, kissing and licking the long stretches of hot flesh.  

Everything else is a second thought in Tops’ head as he takes the zipper tag in his mouth and pulls it down. The jersey devil’s cock is hard, already dripping with precum. It's also a bit larger than Tops was expecting but fuck it. His gag reflex has long been destroyed. Two inches aren’t going to present more of a challenge. He can’t deep throat right away so he preps with licking and sucking, hoping his body picks up on the cues.

The jersey devil shudders and Tops rears back, afraid he’s going to get cum all over his face ( _again_ ), he hears another noise.

A gunshot.

“What the fuck?” Tops asks.

The claws that had been stroking his scalp, urging him on, suddenly dig in. The jersey devil continues smiling but pulls out a Beretta from inside his leather jacket. He aims the barrel at the other fae’s skull.

“Where you think _you’re_ going, cowboy?” asks the jersey devil.

“Home hopefully,” Tops says, “after a civilized discussion where neither of us are hurt.”

The jersey devil chuckles. “Yeah, here’s the funny thing about that: _somebody’s_ getting hurt.”

“It doesn’t have to be us, though,” Tops continues, “I have money--”

“Not interested.” The devil presses the barrel against his head. “Smart of you to drain these Seelie brats. Too bad you’re moving in on the boss’ territory.”

Gunshots and yelling echo from inside the club house. Someone roars and Tops can only hope that the blue floozy had more oni in her that he initially suspected or maybe Worth summoned a pissed off familial guardian. However, Tops doubts his rescue would be high on either’s priority.

“I’m no risk to your boss. I’m small time only.” Tops adds, “What’s your boss’ name? Maybe I know him--”

“Shut the fuck up already!” the jersey devil growls.

“I could make you a very rich devil.”

Tops knows he needs to shut the fuck up, but that’s not an option. Panic sets his brain into overdrive, trying to think of a way out of his this. He doesn’t want to die anytime soon and he _especially_ doesn’t want to die with a hard cock in his face and himself still at a half-chub because his brain also thinks danger is hot.

The clubhouse groans. There’s another gunshot, followed by Worth yelling. The car jolts, sharply angling downward. Tops seizes the opportunity and bites where it hurts—the dick. It doesn’t really matter where. Tops has been up close and personal with enough junk to know that a bite _anywhere_ is bad news.

Though it helps to have fangs too.

The jersey devil screams but pain fucks up his aim. He misses Tops’ head, hitting the car floor. Tops wastes no time. He scrambles away, jumping off the car balcony. He plummets to the ground and starts changing shape, wrapping the magic around him.

Tops hits the ground running as a brown rat. He scurries away, using his rat nose to find the best piles of garbage. He climbs onto a mound of broken furniture, bicycles without wheels, and rusting appliances to get a better look at the clubhouse. The clubhouse is trembling as magic unwinds from it. This wasteland eats away at any presence, so it's quick to start falling apart. The cars and cans that make up the walls collapse, falling over and sending up clouds of dirt and debris.

Somewhere, humans sensitive to the barriers between magic and machines hear vague noises. They make out the cries of something, feel gooseflesh rise and an unusual shudder, but they’ll forget it come morning. Some may even wake but they won’t have evidence of anything else. Some may be convinced of haunting or visitations from otherworldly presences, while others will blame fluctuations in piping and electricity. 

The clubhouse doesn’t entirely collapse, so Worth must still be alive—just badly injured. As the clubhouse struggles for stability, Seelie and Unseelie brats crowd the various balconies and hatches. New money brats are bored and spoiled but they’re not cowards. They were reared on diet soda and tales of their conquering ancestors making human lands their own. They’re not ones to be cowed.

But neither are the intruders. Most of them are jersey devils, wearing the same casual clothes as the one Tops encountered and having a beef with _someone._

A bullet nearly hits Tops and he recalls that, _Oh yeah, this is a fucking warzone._ He slides down an abandoned microwave and runs further into the junkyard. His rat-heart beats frantically but he’s not sure how much ground he can cover. The jersey devil can fly and Tops hears leathery wings on the air behind him.

“There’s no point in running, you fuck! I can _smell_ you!” yells the jersey devil.

For someone who complained about Tops’ never shutting his mouth, the jersey devil is a motor mouth as well.

Tops considers his options but there are few. Changing into a bird won’t do him any favors. Following gremlins, jersey devils are the fastest bastards on the East Coast. He keeps running, crossing that line where the junkyard becomes the landfill. He runs past garbage bags of already torn and splattered spoiled food. That gives him an idea.

Gods bless the human supermarkets.

Tops dives in without a thought. He gags on the awful odor but its his fae brain that’s repugnant to it. The mouse doesn’t give a shit, having no frame of reference when it comes to certain odors. He gets deep inside the pile and starts to change from one skin to another.

“How fucking stupid are you?” The jersey devil says as he lands on the ground. He starts walking slowly through the landfill, “I’ve got your scent. You think a little garbage is gonna do shit?”

Tops relies on his ears, as he can’t turn around. He hears footsteps getting closer. The garbage bag covering him is yanked away. The moon casts light down on him and Tops exhales all his tension.

“Come quietly or I’ll--”

The jersey devil shrieks as they’re sprayed with a pungent perfume. While they’re gagging on the stench and shrieking about their eyes, a skunk runs from the garbage pile and down another path in the landfill. Although ‘run’ is rather incorrect as skunks are slow creatures. ‘Jog’ is closer to it.

Tops swerves around another corner of broken office furniture, changing into himself again. A skunk is not the best form to be in and he shakes off grime and pulls an orange peel out of his hair. He exhales again, feeling exhausted from changing shapes so quickly. It was a gambit but he’s not sure if it’ll do him any good.

The devil’s stench is coming closer. He’s down but not out. Tops breaks into a run, moving through the landfill pathways. He runs in a zigzag pattern like an antelope from a lion.

Then there’s a thunder crack and Tops feels the _pow!_ of something hit him in the shoulder. He hits the ground hard and his legs feel like jello and everything in his left shoulder hurts. He wheezes but can’t even move. He’s in so much pain that he screams out, sweating and whimpering through the pain. If he was a different sort of fae—a _stronger_ fae—he’d dig the bullet out with no problem and walk this shit off.

Though if Tops was that kind of fae, he wouldn’t _be_ in this mess. He’d be chilling on some Cape Cod beach with a yemaja on each arm. 

“You little fucking runt. Think you’re _real_ clever, huh?” The booted footsteps are coming toward him along with the sulfuric tang of fresh skunk spray.

Tops wants to eloquently plead his case but all he can muster in a pained strain of profanities in lowly pidgin. He grunts and tries to move, tries to crawl through the pain. He can’t even look up from the ache but his instincts are taking over.

“Where the fuck do you think _you’re_ going?” snarls the devil.

There’s a boot on his back, slamming him into the dirt. Tops screams from the pain vibrating through him. His back is wet and hot and sticky with his own silver blood. He whimpers and wishes he could curl in on himself if he wasn’t so pained.

“Stay fucking still or I’ll plug another bullet in you.” The devil grunts.

Tops stays still, mostly because he can’t fucking move. The pain is too much and everything hurts. Tears run down his eyes as he hears the familiar beep of a burner phone being used.

“Can’t fucking _believe_ this shit.” The devil is grunting under their breath, “Five fucking years legionnaire and now _this_ \--”

There’s a pause.

“The _fuck_?” the devil says.

Tops has his eyes closed. He just wants the pain to stop and for this shitty night to be over.

“How long have you…?” the devil murmurs and then snarls, “What the fuck _are_ you?”

The words are cut off with a gargling, guttural noise. Something sharp tears meat and bone, followed by a loud _thump._ Tops whimpers and prays that whatever is going on is just passing by and this isn’t related to him. He keeps entirely still and prays, or just some semblance of a prayer since he has no familial gods.

Plastic rustles and a wall of garbage shudders. Tops still keeps his eyes shut.

“You a possum now?” chuckles a voice.

This voice is not the sultry tone of the devil hunting him. It is low and whispering, like a man choking on a rattlesnake. Tops can’t tell if it's man or woman, or what kind of fae they could possibly be. He remains frozen on the ground, hoping this new voice can’t hear heartbeats.

“It does ya no good. I hear ya breathin’. I hear _everythin’_.”

Tops still doesn’t move.

“Well, well.” The voice snickers, “Guess I’ll leave ya hear t’die. Or let ya get shot some more--”

“No!” Tops chokes out. He bites his mouth until it bleeds but doesn’t care.

“Ooh, it’s got a voice!” the voice laughs, “Does it got a name too?”

Tops is weak and exhausted but he looks up. He sees… _something_ …sitting on top of cardboard boxes and aluminum cans and Styrofoam. It’s assembled like an ugly throne and the thing looks at him. It’s too dark in the landfill to tell what the rest of its body is like but Tops sees the reflection of three eyes looking down at him. The landfill and junkyard are silent and the shouts and gunfire are gone. Tops doesn’t know if the fight is over or magic is at play. He can’t sense anything so it’s something unknown…something power.

His stomach lurches and he doesn’t know whether to vomit or grovel.

“What are you?” Tops gasps.

“Eh, what barn were ya raised in?”

The garbage pile rustles and tendrils slide out. They’re made of molded colorful plastic and sharp as legionnaire blades. Tops swallows and tries to move away from them. The plastic sickles point at him, glinting the moonlight. The creature in the garbage throne looks at him and has a smile like a knife hungering from Tops’ throat.

“I asked ya first.” insists the creature.

“I-if you’re a demon, killing me won’t do you any good.” Tops stammers, because he’s a fool but he knows better than to speak real names with shadowy creatures, “Or eating me either. I’m colony trash. All mixed blood and bones. I haven’t bathed in a week. Shit, I haven’t _eaten_ in a week.” He never thinks about these things until they come up. “I can get you things. I’m a smuggler. I can crossover--”

Tops is shaking and not just fear. He’s feeling the cold of the New England air and his shoulder hurts so fucking bad that he can hardly see straight. The urge to vomit can’t be stifled any longer and he rolls over. It’s all he can do before he spits up bile on his side.

The creature tilts his head and blinks owlishly.

“Hold it.”

Then the creature is gone from the garbage throne. There are clawed fingers on Tops’ back, with sharp nails running along the bloodied area. Plastic is thrust into Tops’ mouth. He gags and fights against it, praying against suffocation. Thankfully it doesn’t fill his mouth and the acrid smell makes him think it’s fresh off the factory line. Tops’ mind is reeling but then the claws dig it without warning. It burns and hurts more than any pain Tops has ever had to deal with until now. He screams and screams, biting down on the plastic.

At some point, everything goes black.

Tops doesn’t dream. He recalls memories like he’s sure Worth’s grandmother recalls events relating to her ugly sapphire necklaces and magic mirrors. Tops recalls being a crow chick, ugly and molting. He sits in the sod house home by the fire, listens to his mother tell him of the wasteland and what was once there.

But it’s all nonsense. Lowlies know nothing but their skins and fangs.

 

Tops wakes up to the light of the morning sun and the stench of blood.

He is on a broken mattress, resting on his side. He smells of vomit, piss, and blood. The morning sun is high above him and the light stings his eyes. His back is tender and hurts, but he can feel the bullet has been removed. He sits up very slowly, surveying the area. He is still in the landfill and in the dawn light, everything seems softer and the night previous feels unimaginable. 

A boy sits on the other end of the mattress. The boy is hunched and if it wasn’t for the sloppy posture, he would be tall. His eyes are blue-violet and his stare is long. He is an albino with a broad nose and thick blonde curls. He wears a sweater long enough to be a dress and full of worn patches and loose threads. This boy makes Top think of the vagabond orphans of literature, composited into one being. Oliver Twist clothes. Tom Sawyer hair. Huck Finn face. Anne of Green Gables eyes.

Behind him are five gremlins. Their faces are bat-like, with flesh and chrome warping their bodies. Their faces are painted and there are machine patterns and facsimiles from decades ago. Battered wings hang off their bodies. Their red eyes are focused on Tops.

“Please tell me you’re with the legionnaires. Or the Seelie.” Tops says, “Fuck, I’ll take Unseelie at this point.”

The boy points a gun at Top’s head.

“Yeah,” Tops sighs, “that’s what I thought.”

“I am faced with a predicament.” the boy announces in a gentle, cherubic voice.

“Really now?” Tops asks, unsurprised. What _else_ could go wrong at this point?

“This is my territory and my territory is like a good dessert. Like chocolate cake.” says the boy, “So when I learn that my cake is being chewed upon by a smuggling rat, I am very displeased. However, I am very curious as to _how_ this little rat even got to the cake in the first place. You see, my cake is well guarded and sealed off from vermin. This rat makes me curious, so I hire exterminators to take them in alive for me. Instead, my exterminators are dead and missing. And yet, here this rat is: roughed up but still alive.”

“I get it, Aesop.”  Tops grunts.

The boy fires the gun over Tops head and the fae shrieks, covering his ears. He trembles, swallowing nervously. After this experience, he’s not even going to be able to tolerate seeing guns…if he can live through this. 

“Sorry! Shit! I get it, alright? You’re pissed.” Tops says, teeth chattering, “I didn’t do this shit though. There’s something else here, some… _thing._ I didn’t get a good look at it but I’m just a smalltime smuggler. I just want to make enough money to eat and not have to take a bath at fucking McDonalds.”

The boy still has the gun aimed at Tops. “And it’s just you?”

“Yes! Swear to my blood’s gods.” Tops admits, “Listen, I don’t got many options. You’re”—he looks at the gremlins, then back at the boy—“important. _Really_ fucking important. I’m a rat nibbling the cake, right? Well, rats are smart. They can be trained to do things, like get into small places you can’t. Let me work for you. I got no courts, no loyalties, no boons or nothing you need worrying about.”

The boy tilts his head. “You have no idea who I am.”

Tops shakes his head. The boy’s identity can wait until there isn’t a gun to his head.

The boy smiles.

“There are two choices for little rats.” He says, “You can go with me and do everything I say, or I could just hand you off to the legionnaires. Who knows? Maybe you’ll survive the grindhouse and get out in ten years--”

“No!” Tops’ heart stutters in his chest, threatening to jump out of his throat. He swallows and curses his immediate reaction to just _hearing_ the threat. Now he’s given the boy an ace for the future. Tops composes himself and says, “It’s fine. I’ll go with you.”

The boy gives him a measured look and then points his gun at his clothes. “Strip.”

Tops goes still for a moment and almost speaks something unfortunate out of annoyance.

“You’re not getting into _my_ car wearing that.” the boy says in a matter of fact voice.  

Tops swallows but this is actually a relief. His clothes are beyond recovery at this point. He peels away the bloodied shirt, the soiled pants, and the sweaty boots. Everything gets cast away except the headscarf and the staff. The last thing Tops takes off are the socks, which he holds up so nobody shoots when they think he’s getting a weapon.

“My cash is in here.” Tops announces.

“Put it down.” the boy orders.

Tops immediately puts the socks on the broken mattress. A gremlin picks it up, empties the money, and counts it.  

“105 in human cash.” says the gremlin.

The boy snorts and looks at Tops with what can only be described as pity injected with haughtiness. “Thank gods this isn’t about the money, or I’d have shot you.”  He waves to the gremlins. “Disperse it amongst yourself.”

Tops grits his teeth and sees the wide smirks of the gremlins. This is more a lesson for Tops rather than a reward. The cash means nothing to this kid, who has to be the son of some important gangster—that’s why he’s flouting his power.

Tops doesn’t give a shit. He just hopes he can earn that money back, or at least get something to eat so he doesn’t risk falling over. He wraps his arms around himself, feeling cold and naked without his clothes. He wishes he had a cold compress for his aching shoulder and some food in his stomach.

The boy looks at his staff. “What’s the deal with that?”

“It was my mother’s.” Tops holds out the staff, looking at the boy. “It can’t do anything. I just like to hold it.”

One of the gremlins takes the staff, examining it. Tops’ skin crawls as he watches the gremlin’s oil and grit stained hands fondle his staff but he says nothing. He just grinds his teeth and tries not to look away.

“Not a sword cane, magic, or anything.”  The gremlin tosses the staff back to Tops. “Just carved driftwood.”

“Boring.” The boy gives a theatrical yawn. “Let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”

One of the gremlins seizes Tops by the arm and drags him off. Tops tries to maintain his courage as he heads off into gods knows where.

 

The car is an old model Cadillac and Tops doesn’t know who this boy is trying to impress. Traditional aristocrats hold up their nose to any human technology in favor of classical homestead styles. Colony new money prefer custom choppers or cobbling their own low-rider car out of driftwood and scrap metal, painted in garish colors and designed like ugly wyverns and other beasts.

Nothing about this boy makes sense to Tops, but it’s hard to concentrate while stuck in the truck of the car. Tops rolls around like luggage, feeling the car slide between the human highway and the fae fringes.  The car rides the highway and at the same time, it doesn’t. Humans may see a car out of the corner of their eye or think there’s something too close to them, but they won’t see anything once they look at it. Maybe when they go home, they’ll recall seeing a certain car but the memory will be hazy.

It’s all complicated magic—old magic—that Tops never learned and doesn’t have time for. Old bloods in the homestead are clucking their tongues, murmuring about tradition being lost.

Tops rocks in the trunk as the car does a turn. He has a feeling they’re getting off the highway and hopes he’s not going to be in the trunk for long. The fumes are making his head spin and his skin is clinging to the plastic tarp covering the inside.

A morbid thought occurs to him. The plastic means they must do this often. Luckily, he has the advantage of them wanting to keep him alive. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know how long that will extend. He’s still too tired to change shapes and even if he could, he has no forms that would help him. Gremlins fly faster than birds and the skunk trick probably wouldn’t work on fae who spend their days chugging avgas and eating aluminum.

And the guns. Gods, the _guns_. The bullet in his arm is gone but Tops is far from healing or forgetting the pain.

The car comes to a rough halt and Tops curses as he’s rolled around more. The trunk opens, shining in the bright light. Tops curls up but a gremlin grabs him, holding him like a harmless animal. When he puts Tops on his feet, he’s dazed and has to look around to see where he is.

He is in a strip mall parking lot in mediocre condition, with huge cracks and pot holes peppering different areas. There’s a liquor store, an abandoned movie theatre, a tanning salon, a dollar store, a pizza shop, and a sports bar. It’s no different from the other places but Tops can feel the magic here is thick, crosshatching like ink on paper into the human and fae sides. He knows this area and has made sure to steer clear of it.

“No way.” Tops says when he sees the abandoned theater. He looks at Virgil, swallowing, “You’re part of the Bridgewater Triangle?”

The boy smiles.

“I _am_ the Bridgewater Triangle.” he says with that cherubic smile, “Virgil Bridgewater.”

“No fucking way.” Tops laughs and soon he’s laughing too hard and he starts shuddering. “You’re fucking kidding me! You… _can’t_ be Virgil Bridgewater. Virgil Bridgewater is like, two hundred years old. He’s a scary old blood living it up in his manor in the homestead. What in the fuck would he be doing in the colonies?”

“Interesting.” the boy says. Then he nods to one of the gremlins.

The gremlin walks over to Tops, looking down at him with a wicked grin. Then without a word, he punches Tops across the face. Tops gets knocked to his feet and lands on his ass and shit, the impact of it is a lot worse when he’s bare ass naked. Tops yelps, feels the dribble of hot blood from his nose.

“There is something you need to know about me if I am going to consider you as a worker.” says the boy. He still has a sweet smile as he speaks to Tops, “One is that I never lie. Two is that I don’t tolerate mockery of my name.”

The boy closes the gap between Tops and himself. Tops is still on the ground, reeling from the punch. The boy grabs a fist full of Tops’ hair and hauls him up. Tops yelps, struggling against the pain of being pulled up.

“Now, I ask you…” Virgil says, “What’s. My. Name?”

“…Virgil Bridgewater...” Tops gasps.

“Correct!” the boy chuckles and releases Tops. Tops falls back on the ground, gasping.

He doesn’t get to stay down long. A gremlin grabs him by the arm and drags him in direction of the abandoned theatre. The doors swing open, leading him inside the building.

Humans would see darkness and smell the must and rot in a theater that’s been empty for more than a decade. They can’t see the magic but they would feel something wrong about the place, making them adverse to it in every way. There’s a reason why many places are ‘haunted’ and a source of much speculation for them.

For Tops, who is firmly in the fae side of things, the theater is still abandoned but there is the hum of activity going on. What had once been the front lobby is now a central meeting area for those in the syndicate and a temporary place to stay. It’s not just gremlins here but an assortment of fae: spider-women, jersey devils, rougarou, spirit bears, and swamp beasts. There are clusters of them, hanging out like coworkers and sharing hamburgers and French fries. The fried smell is too tempting for tops and he almost heads in that direction if it wasn’t for the firm grip on his arm.

Still, he whimpers in direction of the food as he’s moved past that. Tops is brought to a area in the center of the lobby with the sign ‘concession stand’ above it and dusty pictures of popcorn and hotdogs being advertised. The gremlin shoves him inside the area. The ground is littered with dirty clothes, old blankets, and pillows from past inhabitants.

“I have some business to attend to.” Virgil says, “Prospect, get this rat some clothes and show him the ropes. I expect him trained by the time I’m through.”

“Sure thing, boss.” says Prospect. By some small mercy, he’s not the gremlin that had been tossing Virgil around like a sack of potatoes. He has green, white, and red face paint and a big mouth full of sharp metal teeth. Like all gremlins, he is muscles squeezed into a white tank top and no doubt has the attitude to justify the constant scowl on his face.

Virgil then struts away with the other gremlins following like gnats. Now Tops knows why: they’re not his posse, but his bodyguards that can only hope that the boss will acknowledge them.

Prospect looks at Tops, red eyes looking him up and down. Tops ducks behind the concession stand counter, hiding his nudity. He plays off his embarrassment with agitation. 

“Okay, show’s over, fly boy.” Tops says, “How about you get me some pants and a shirt? Unless you want everyone staring at my ass all day.”

Prospect looks at Tops like he might smack him for a few minutes and teach him some manners. Instead, the gremlin rolls his eyes and walks away.

“Not much to look at, to begin with.” He grunts.

“Well, fuck you too!” Tops snarls but the gremlin doesn’t answer him.

While the gremlin is gone, Tops explores the concession stand. There are a lot of unpleasant leftovers: used condoms, needles, and cigarettes litter one area and Tops makes a mental note to avoid it as much as possible. He goes through the rags around him, finding them musty and ugly but not as contaminated as they could be. He makes a small pile underneath what was once a popcorn box and sits on it with his legs folded.

Around him, people are talking and going through their own lives. He hears multiple languages, from the Seelie, Unseelie, and all the pidgins in-between. If he was in a better mood, he’d join them but right now he just wants clothes, food, and sleep in that specific order.

Prospect returns with a t-shirt with sweaty armpits. It goes down to Tops’ knees, which at least covers _part_ of his body. He’ll just have to hope no strong breezes come by to expose him.

“No shower either, huh?” Tops asks.

“What do you think this is: the Ritz?” Prospect snorts, “Showers and food are for earners. Right now, you’re just a parasite.” He turns away from Tops, walking toward the front of the theater. “Come on.”

“What about shoes?” Tops asks, “It's super _gross_ here! You expect me to sleep in this mess?”

Prospect doesn’t stop walking but growls in a low voice, “I won’t tell you twice, rat.”

Tops grumbles but follows after the gremlin, being sure to be careful where he steps. The floor is gritty and disgusting and he tries not to think about how nasty his feet are going to be at the end of this ugly excursion.

Prospect gives him a show of the area: the lobby is for hanging out before going out on jobs, the ticket booth for checking in, and upstairs past the escalator is for work only.

“Better not see your bony ass upstairs unless the boss calls you,” Prospect says.

“My ass isn’t bony!” Tops protests.

“Could’ve fooled me, Skeletor.”

The Bridgewater Triangle has a very strict system. Every low-level worker (dealers, cookers, runners, whores) have an overseer that they report to and handles their cash. The cash is then funneled back into the gang via paying for showers and food. Food is cooked by the old ladies and men of the syndicate—grandmas and grandpas who have nowhere else to go and know how to use homestead recipes to their advantage.

“And we better not catch you buying food anywhere else.” Prospect adds, “That’s for high earners.”

Beyond the lobby were the bathrooms and the showers, which always had armed guards by the entrance at all times. The theaters themselves had been converted into different spaces but Prospect only took him to another concession stand that had been converted into a general store. Operating it was a Loveland frog with shiny green skin and goes by Cookie.

“Cookie here will sell you what we have in stock.” Prospect says, “Sleeping bags, clothes, snacks, anything you want.”

“Condoms too. Those are high sellers.” Cookie snickers, “I also do conversions. If you got dollars, I’ll exchange them into madstones right quick.”

“Great. Too bad I’m broke.” Tops grunts.

The last place on the tour was a theater at the very end of the hall. A rank scent poured out and Tops looked inside the dimly lit room. Tables are lined up and at each end and strung out addicts work their blistered and burned fingers with glass vials and plastic packaging. One hand seizes a vial of crumbled powder red as blood while another stuffs it into a plastic container and wraps it in more paper. Then that goes into a box at the very end of the table. No one looks up from the task, eyes glazed over and weeping welts on their arms and faces. The only ones not focused on production are gremlin overseers holding baseball bats and guns.

“The zombie room.” Prospect says, “Troublemakers wind up here. I like to think it’s not as _bad_ as the grinding houses but I’m not sure.” The gremlin looks at tops with a wicked smile. “What do _you_ think?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Tops grunts. Sweat trickles down his back and he tries not to show his fear. He keeps his distance and avoids looking at the workers toiling away. “Is that the end of the tour? Do I get to fill out a survey about your performance and complain to the management?”

Prospect tilts his head and grabs Tops’ jaw. He doesn’t dig in the claws too deep, just enough to remind the fae who’s bigger and stronger.

“You know for such a small guy,” Prospect says, “you got a _big_ fucking mouth.”

Tops grins through the pain. “My mouth is my special talent.”

“How useful would that ‘talent’ be if I broke your jaw?” Prospect asks.

“Not much but then I couldn’t tell your boss everything I know.”

Prospect snorts and releases Tops’ face. “Get out of my sight, rat.”

“Fine.” Tops growls, “Can I at least get some food? Yeah, I know you earn food but I haven’t eaten in like a week. I might die if I don’t eat _something_.”

Prospect rolls his eyes and digs his back pocket. He tosses an energy bar at Tops. Tops scowls but takes it away. He stomps all the way back to the concession stand and sat on his pile of scraps. He chews on the rough texture of the energy bar, swallowing down hunks and wondering what he can do to earn some cash quickly. He peers around the lobby but no one is paying any attention to him, not even the dressed up whores hanging around everyone else.

Tops thinks back on what he knows about the Bridgewater Triangle but it's not much aside from lowly hearsay. He know the criminal syndicate made a name for themselves in the homestead, absorbing smaller gangs into themselves and whipping out the competition. He knew only about Virgil Bridgewater because the name had been whispered in fear, for he’d killed a lot of elder fae for just crossing him in the past. Though considering how Tops was very wrong on what Virgil looked like, that might be true at all.

He also didn’t think the Bridgewater Triangle would be interested in the colonies…and yet, here they are.

Looking around at the gang, Tops sees a local assortment of fae: no one born on the homestead or at least not obviously. Most of them are mixed blood just like him, having no real taxonomy and stand out too much to properly join the Seelie or Unseelie. Just like him, they want to climb through the ranks. Unlike him though, Tops is a lot smarter than these assholes. He just needs to figure out how to go about the ranking.

He spends the entire time in the concession stand contemplating. The energy bar at least gives him the energy to think on his next move.

An hour later, Prospect comes by. He’s smoking a cigarette that smells like jet fuel and other harsh chemicals. In the fluorescent lights, the gremlin’s green face paint looks even mossier.

“If you want this to be a zoo, looking is never free.” Tops says.

“Your jokes need work.” Prospect says, “Get your ass up. Boss wants to speak with you, rat.” 

Tops gets up with little grunting and is glad to stretch his legs. He follows Prospect up the motionless escalator. The upper levels of the theater are where it's really starting to show its age. Posters from decades ago are still on the wall, the ceiling is starting to fall in, and pipes are breaking through. Judging by the teeth marks on some of them, the gremlins have been snacking on parts of the architecture.

Tops can’t stand the silence so he probes Prospect for details. “So what’s your boss want me for? Let me guess: it's drug related. Well, I hope it's nothing too complicated. I’m only a lowly mixed-blood. I can’t do _too_ much without legionnaires and prefects jumping down my throat. Say, how good are you with the legionnaires? Because usually when you swarm a Seelie place they get all _testy_ and--”

Prospect grabs Tops by the shoulder and slams him into the wall. Tops looks up at the gremlin and is suddenly reminded that this man has about fifty pounds of muscle on him and Tops hasn’t even eaten a real meal in a week. It’d be easy for him to throw the smaller fae through the wall. Hell, even _ten_ walls if Prospect’s feels like getting a good workout in.

“Let’s get one thing straight, rat,” Prospect says, “I’m not your pal. I’m not your co-worker. You’re just another rat that got lucky ‘cause the boss man needs you and when he’s sick of you, you’re going in the zombie room. Fae who keep their mouths open all the time end up with no tongues.”

Tops sweats but doesn’t let the fear show. He rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I get it. Big scary guy.” he grunts.

The rest of the trip is silent, except for Tops’ stomach growling. He wishes that Prospect had given him another energy bar if he was going to do so much walking. Prospect brings him to a door with the sign _Projector Room 1-5_ still on it, although it’s starting to rust at the edges. The gremlin knocks and after a muffled “Come in”, he opens the door.

The projector room still has machinery in it, although it’s been graffiti and rusted over for gods know how long. Virgil sits on a brass throne that looks like a prop from an amusement park. In front of him is a desk, decorated with grinning cartoon characters. There is a stool in front of this like it’s a bar meant to be pulled up to.

Scattered on the floor are other small machine parts and other things that might belong to hard plastic toys: action figure arms, various doll heads, and ball-joint limbs. There are also papers and folders in semi-organized piles.

Prospect shoves Tops inside and slams the door behind him. Virgil has a toy robot on the desk. He is placing leftover plastic pieces into a bowl overflowing with mist.

“Sit,” Virgil says.

Tops walks over and sits on the stool. Not a difficult task, although the cover is worn and the metal around the stool cold. _I really wish I had some fucking pants right now,_ is his primary thought.

Virgil does not look at him, continuing to place leftover plastic bits into the misting bowl.

“You know, I rather like these models.” Virgil says, “They come in rather pricey kits though and they don’t move, so I’ve had to do some augmentations on my own. Of course, it involves destroying a lot of aspects to make room for such things but I enjoy that as well.”

Virgil looks at Tops and suddenly, Tops feels a hundred years younger. His eyes are cold and blue like a lake that’s been frozen for millennia. His fingers are nimble and spider-like and nothing like what Tops has seen in the mixed-blood population in the colonies.

“I like remaking things if they’re useless to me though.” Virgil smiles like a cherub. “Though, sometimes there’s no point in remaking something if it breaks so easy. The last person I couldn’t remake, I had to kill and he didn’t die quickly. I shot him in the stomach. Do you know what happens when you do that?”

Tops nods. He’s seen firsthand how deadly an abdominal injury can be. He doesn’t look away from Virgil because looking away is something a lowly would do and he is not one of those. He never will be.

Virgil pouts as if disappointed. “I should honestly kill you, but you’re a very useful rat. That and the look in your eyes…you look like you want to kill me. Would you tell me if that’s true, _please_?”

Tops wants to refuse, but the words snake around him like a chain around his throat. He can’t fight off the urge to suddenly sit and he nearly collapses on the bar. Virgil watches him as the words are dragged out of his throat.

“It’s true.” Tops says, “I’m going to kill you. Not just you but everyone that calls me a lowly because fuck them and fuck you. Old bloods like you think you’re better than everyone else. You’re not. You’re made of the same blood and shit just like the rest of us.”

“True enough,” Virgil says with a sweet smile. He leans in and runs a finger along Tops’ face. Spider fingers stroke Tops’ stubble and the fae’s heart beats even faster. “But if I wasn’t old world, I couldn’t do this now could I? You look so…angry. Are you humiliated? Tell me what you’re thinking, _please_?”

Tops is unused to the touch and his brain can’t decide between hating it or wanting more. He shudders and leans into it and wonders what his fucked up brain is doing and why it wants and doesn’t want this all in the same. Tops struggles to beat back the compulsion but he’s too exhausted to do so. Instead, he blurts out the first stupid thought to be dragged to the surface of his mind.  

“How old are you?” he blurts out.

“Does it matter?” Virgil chuckles.

“Y-yes…!”

Virgil makes a noise in the back of his throat and withdraws his hand. Tops breathes slowly and feels like he’s run a marathon with wild abandon. He starts to recover and starts to wonder what in the fuck Virgil is doing.

Virgil’s attention is back on the bowl. He reaches inside and pulls out a soft plastic sphere. Its mottled blue and gold, looking slightly lumpy as if molded together from other plastic. Water runs down Virgil’s thin fingers.

“I’m going to give you a choice, though calling it a choice is a mockery of such a wonderful word.” Virgil says, “You’re going to do something for me. Consider it a task that all heroes must complete, such as turning lead into gold or sowing the earth with dragon’s teeth. Impossible yet possible.”

Oddly poetic terms. Tops doesn’t trust it.

“What do you want me to do? Smuggle something?” Even Tops knows it’s all he’s good for at the end of the day. “If you want to know my supplier, you can have him.”

“That I’ll have later. For now, I want something more fun.” Virgil spins the orb around in his thin fingers. “As I said before, you have a choice and that choice is: this orb of mine can either be swallowed or placed inside of you.”

“Swallowed?”

“It can be choked down given the right amount of creativity and alcohol.”

“It’s golf ball sized!”

“Well, I didn’t say it would be _easy._ ”

Tops shirks, inching away from Virgil and his orb. “And ‘placed’ inside--”

“Not as bad but surely almost as uncomfortable.”

Tops’ mouth goes slack. He wants to ask “What” or “Why” but nothing comes immediately to his mouth. The connection is lost. Data not found. All he does is stare at Virgil.

“Consider it a way of keeping track of naughty pets,” Virgil says, “though if you like something less intrusive and more permanent, I could just _burn_ a tracking sigil into you. Of course, I’d have to put it someplace you can’t just cut off or easily burn out, like your back.” He tilts his head. “Maybe your left ass cheek? That might be fun. You’d be like a _My Little Pony_ then.”

Tops inhales sharply and stands. Between the lack of food and running around, he feels dead on his feet.

“Let’s just get this over with.” He grunts.

There are many things Tops is willing to tolerate and a lot of bullshit he’s dealt with in his life, but he draws the lines at another marking his skin. He’s not cattle and he sure as hell isn’t someone’s ugly plastic toy.

Virgil smiles like a cherub. “As I thought.”

Getting the orb inside of him is still difficult. Tops bends over the desk, hands gripping the ends. Virgil is behind him, doing gods knows what with his orb. Tops looks at the bowl the orb was removed for, smelling like magic and burnt plastic. Virgil’s hand is on his ass and his fingers are still thin and spider-like. The temperature is abnormally warm as if Virgil has been sitting in the sun all day.

Tops hisses when a finger moves inside of him. He winces as he’s being spread and feels something drip down his crack, covering his hole. Oil runs down even as Tops jerks and wants to move. Even with lube, the orb’s entrance is still uncomfortable. Tops has always lived his life avoiding fae that could do this to him. This is not how he wants to be introduced to it. He expects a scream but instead, he gets an escalating yell that peters out into a weird, low moan. He gasps and ruts against the desk as the orb moves further inside. His body shudders as it climbs further, moving deeper inside. It almost feels like years have passed when it finally stops moving, resting inside of him.

Tops can’t muster any words. His legs are shaking and drool runs down his face. He’s still gripping onto the desk though he’s sure the compulsion has faded by now.

“Stand up.” Virgil requests.

Tops drags himself to a standing position. The orb rubs against his prostate, immediately going to his cock. He wobbles, feeling unsteady on his feet even more than before.

“Oh, gods. _No_.” Tops gasps, “I can’t have this thing inside me like this. This is— _shit_ \--”

“You’ll live.” Virgil returns to his seat behind the desk, “You’re going to do a job for me today. You’re going to take a package from here to Vow-Of-Bliss City. Then you’re going to bring back another package here. You’re going to do this without fail or I’ll have you ‘testing’ our latest products.”

“T-the city? A homestead city?” Tops is panting, trying to get a hold of himself but it's difficult. Moving slightly just makes the orb press against him. Without pants, it's hard to hide his arousal. He looks at Virgil, grasping onto his dignity. “There’s no way I can go in there. They’ll know I-I’m not supposed to--”

“You must have a method. Otherwise, how have you been smuggling?”

Tops’ answer is a moan he can’t smother in time. Sweat runs down his face, but he quickly wipes it away. He has to focus, even if he’s already feeling exhausted. He can’t remember the last anyone ‘played’ with him like this and never to this extent.

“A-and let me guess,” Tops mumbles, “this… _thing…_ inside of me, it stays there until I come back or something happens?”

“Aren’t you the smart one?” Virgil chuckles, “Yes, it will explode if you don’t return in twenty-four hours. It’s a serious defect really. Once you wind the gears, they need to ‘unwind’ and they tend to do that rather…violently.”

“Violently? Wait, _gears_?” Tops clenches his teeth. “What did you put inside me exactly?”

“That’s a question for another time, my friend.” Virgil rests on his palm, looking at him like a cherubic statue. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? The clock’s ticking…”

Tops doesn’t even have time for an enraged “fuck you” as he runs out of the projection room, slamming the door behind him. If Virgil is laughing, then he’s not taking much notice of it. Tops returns to the concession stand, still panting. The orb inside of him has shifted again but thankfully its away from his prostate for the time being. If he can pull himself together, maybe he can get through this with the remains of his dignity intact.

Prospect approaches him and the gremlin has a sour look on his face. He reaches inside his pants and slaps a wallet down on the counter. Hand quivering, Tops shakes it and looks through the wallet. It’s a waxy waterproof material containing the usual papers: national identity document cards, passport, and working permit assigned to a ‘Topias’. There’s also a photo but it’s a hack job with his face pasted sloppily over it.

“I get to rat-sit,” Prospect growls and looks about as happy with the situation as Tops does.

Tops is studying the passport. “Who the fuck do you think are you gonna fool with this hack job picture? Even a drunk legionnaire would think _something’s_ off.” 

“As long as you don’t fuck up, it should go fine.” Prospect says, “As long as you’re not wanted on any lists, they won’t give a shit. Sketchier people have gone through borders.” He turns away. “Come the fuck on.”

Tops carefully steps over a syringe, looking at him. “You expect me to go to the homestead without _pants_?”

Prospect growls but then clenches his teeth. He marches over to an older gremlin, barking something in that odd cant that only their people know. To Tops’ ears, it’s the annoying whine and sputter of plane engines. The older gremlin hands Prospect a lump of something ugly, black, and leather. Prospect tosses it at Tops’ head and the other fae catches it on instinct. The pile of leather turns out to be some ugly monstrosity of a stitched jacket and pants. No belt but fuck it. Better than running around with his ass in the breeze.

Tops puts on the ugly getup, approaching the gremlin. The gremlin almost looks impressed that Tops can do two things at the same time. “I’m gonna need shoes too.” he adds, “Preferably boots with where we’re going.”

Prospect scowls, but that seems to be his permanent expression at the moment. “This isn’t a damn shopping spree,” he  says, “and I’m the one leading us.”

“Really? How long does it take you to cross?” Tops says, putting on the jacket. The leather stinks of gasoline and gremlin piss. “Virgil gave us twenty-four hours and we’re going to waste two trying to find a crossing point that _isn’t_ watched by fucking legionnaires.” He grins, showing off the overgrown fang. “Lucky us, I know a place thirty minutes from here we can cross.”

 “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. Hope you don’t mind bugs though.”

“I don’t give a shit about bugs.” Tops continues walking but Prospect grabs his shoulder. The man’s hand is big enough to pick up Tops with one arm. “There’s no way there’s a crossing point just thirty minutes from here. Every marked gateway’s got eyes on it.”

“Yeah, that’s if you’re using marked ones.”

Prospect tilts his head like he’s looking at an especially yappy dog. “You’re gonna have us go digging around for an old gate?”

“Old gates still work, don’t they?”

“Barely!” Prospect folds his arm. “Shit could collapse on us. We could end up on fucking Neptune or Nibiru.”

“Hey, pal, if either of us wanted ‘safe’ we wouldn’t be drug dealers now would we?”

Prospect squints but he can’t argue with that sentiment. He grabs Tops, dragging the other fae in direction of the store. Tops says nothing but wears a big grin on his face like he’s going to swallow the sun. He’s nearly forgotten the annoying orb stuck up his ass.

The only boots in stock are women’s and although they’re a little tight, Tops can appreciate the fur lined aesthetic…and that he didn’t have to pry it off a corpse or a passed out addict. With the extra height of the heel, Tops feels things are looking up. Yes, this situation isn’t ideal (and the orb keeps rubbing on him on occasion, making him do the occasional odd wobble), but he feels…confident. This isn’t his first run smuggling. He’s not going to fail. He can do this.

Prospect and him can’t jack a car. It takes too much time and energy and someone is going to wonder what a car is doing in the middle of nowhere with no owner. Even if the humans can’t see them, they’ll still wonder things and there’ll be police watching. The magic barrier may do some miracles but it won’t pull a rabbit out of its own ass.

So they take the bus. Riding the bus is easy with the magic. The driver thinks they might see someone, pulls over, and you get on. All they see are vague hints of a shape, someone who might see them, and then they just move on with their lives. By the time Tops and Prospect are done riding, they’re already faded from everyone’s memory and have no importance or standing out facts about them that would make them any different from the hundreds of others that get on and off the bus.

To get to Vow-Of-Bliss, they need to get to the park in the center of the city. The sun is obnoxiously bright when they arrive at the park. Humans are moving about with their offspring and families, polluting the world with their presence and being totally unaware of everything. Tops finds it eerie that they’re never seen or not quite _there_ for humanity, so it's like you may as well not exist. For most humans, they _don’t_ exist and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about this—at least on an existential level.

Existential. There’s a word that his mother would be proud he’s using. Tops shakes his head, tries not to go down that dark path of thinking.

 _Get your head in the fucking game,_ he tells himself, _It’s your life on the line. This is the **real** shit. _

Prospect says nothing the entire time. He’s chewing on what Tops initially thinks is gum but from the hum and loud crackle, it's more likely a piece of cable or wire. Virgil must be paying the gremlins well to not have them chew out every cord that’s in the building just for a buzz. Tops notes this and goes to work. He watches the humans walk around, either escorting their children to the playground or maybe to one of the picnic tables scattered around.Even though the humans can’t see them, Tops still feels uneasy with so many eyes looking at him.

Tops walks past a group of jogging humans and one of them looks over their shoulder, but see nothing. They shrug and continue on their way, blaming their secondary feeling on the wind. Tops finds a ‘sweet spot’ between the jungle gym and the picnic tables. All he has to do is nudge the barriers—like pushing his fingers into a small wound. They slip inside and he tears open the gap, pulling it apart and feels the warmth and light come out of the gap between these worlds. Tops grins to himself and moves through the gap, stepping from one realm and into the next.

On one side there is a public human park and on the other side the waterlogged jungle. Tops turns to Prospect and sees the gremlin’s mouth is hug open, a stub of wire hanging off the lip.

“And _that’s_ how you do it, pleb.” Tops says with a grin.

“I’ll be damned.” Prospect mutters, “Who taught you how to push open gates?”

“Not important. We gotta move.” Tops says and steps through the open gate.

Prospect grunts but follows him. The two fae step into the damp mist of a hot night and the gateway shuts behind them. They deep in the swamp with vines crawling on everything and up to their ankles in water. Tops is relieved they didn’t end up anywhere wetter, but it's not much relief. There are bugs everywhere and the only light available comes from the rings.

Humans have a single moon but fae have a series of colorful rings to guide them home. Tops looks skyward and sees the rings, unmoving as long as one stays in position. He doesn’t concern himself with it, batting away fireflies.

“Fuck’s sake!” Prospect scowls, looking at his muck-covered talons. “A thousand places we could be and you drop us in the middle of the Disappointments?”

“I said I’d get us here, I didn’t say where we’d _land_.” Tops squints between the thick trees and sees the sign of lights passing by and the hum of a car. They’re close to the highway but they’re still going to have to hitch a ride into the city. He starts moving toward the sound. “Come on. We got a walk ahead of us.”

“All these damn branches.” Prospect bats twigs and branches out of your way as you plow ahead. “Fuck, I’d take legionnaires trying to fucking probe me than deal with this shit.”

“If you’re saying that, then you’ve never been probed before.” Tops grunts.

Prospect grunts something in gremlin cant but doesn’t argue.

“You got any idea where we’re going in Vow-Of-Bliss?” Tops inhales sharply as he climbs up a hillock. The orb shifts and he shudders, but he makes sure to control his body. He can’t lose focus. Especially not _now._ “Y-your wonderful boss didn’t tell me.”

“Relax. I got a GPS.” Prospect removes a pointed stone from his pocket. The tip gives off a blue-green light, pointing eastward. “We’re visiting an old friend, so even if you fuck up, we won’t be _totally_ fucked over.”

“So, we hitting a nightclub? Heading for one of those famous Hullywodland coke parties?”

Prospect rolls his eyes. “You watch too many movies.”

Tops shrugs. “What else is there to do in the colonies?”

“Like books don’t exist.” Prospect slaps another bug, growling. His skin may be too thick for mosquitoes but it's still annoying to the gremlin.  

Tops has a short enjoyment of Prospect’s misery before it becomes his own. The insect clouds are closing in on them so they quicken their pace. When they leave the marshland, they’re both relieved. They find the main road lying a few feet outside of the dense trees: a long stretch of flat raised stones, turning the route to Vow-Of-Bliss into a small plateau. The flow of traffic is constant, with cars, carts, and animals moving back and forth on four lanes of traffic.

Vow-of-Bliss is miles away but it’s the only large structure for miles. The crystalline city reflects every light bouncing on it, looking both fantastical and absurd: gaudy, shiny, and impractical. The city is the definition of fae untethered by human structures that the colony-born must cohabit.

“Have you ever seen something so fucking ugly in your life?” Tops asks.

“Not sure,” Prospect admits, “Ever been to Vegas?”

Tops’ mouth twists into a smile but the frivolity doesn’t last for long. Even if Prospect manages to crack that grumpy outside, it's only a façade. The gremlin won’t hesitate to snap Tops’ neck if he senses bullshit. With that sobering thought in mind, the two walk to the nearest trolley stop. They climb the stairs, sitting in the covered area that oversees the plateau highway. They’re the only souls around in every direction.

“So when do gremlins hang around my part of the city?” Tops asks, “Last time I checked, your kind like the military bases.”

“You got the wrong idea about our relationship if you think we’re gonna be pals through this.” Prospect grunts, “I’m here to make sure _you_ don’t fuck up.”

“Don’t you _get_ it?” Tops sighs, like Prospect can’t understand a simple math equation. The gremlin glares at him and he adds, “Gremlins and non-gremlins don’t randomly ‘hang out’ in the homestead. If we’re walking together, we need to at least _look_ like we can stand each other for more than an hour or we’re going to stand out like mermaids in a desert. If I fuck up, I get put in a sack and tossed in the Connecticut River…but you _really_ think I’m gonna go alone?”

Prospect frowns, debates, and finally, speaks.

“Gremlins don’t ‘hang’ with other generations.” Prospect says, “We young ones get booted soon as we fly steady. Boss took us booted ones in. Same goes for the lowlies with us.”

That words gives Tops pause. Lowly? He hadn’t recognized any lowlies amongst the group, but then again, a lowly can be difficult to pick out of a crowd. That’s the entire point of that wretched lifestyle. The word alone makes his stomach squirm but he shoves those uneasy feelings back to the murk where they belong.

Tops is thankful when the trolley comes over. Fae vehicles are all disorganized monstrosities that no sane person would tolerate. Say what you will about the blandness of human inventions but it's not the parade of mutant machines that homestead fae enjoy. The trolley is shaped like a dragonfly with neon lights and wings that constantly move up and down. It's loud and constantly clanking.

 _//“Next stop: Vow-Of-Bliss.”//_ says the mutant trolley.

Tops and Prospect climb inside, sitting shoulder to shoulder with other fae. Most of them have come freshly from the mines, returning to their homes back in the city. Some chew tobacco or betel nut, stained with silver soot and other grime. They’re part of the constant flow of souls in and out of the city.

Tops is relieved when they entered through one of the many crystalline gateways. The trolley drops them off at another stop in the heart of the city, where another group of workers get on as they prepare for the long ride out to the boonies. Tops and Prospect stand in the center of the city, just under the bright light of the central clock tower.

Vow-Of-Bliss is three things: crystal, gold, and silver. There are miles of streets horizontal and vertical and tall spires dwarfing everything else. It feels like the entire city is jagged and nothing about it makes much sense at first look because the architects of such a place were already maddened by their old blood and the magic seeped in their bodies. Above the highest tower are the floating manors of the aged aristocrats—small planetoids that yield to nothing, not even gravity. There are advertisements everywhere, posters for the theater, the library, the brothel, and every tourist attraction under the sun.

Tops stomach churns. He can’t remember the last time he was in the city and the lights and colors are everything. There are a hundred kiosks each hawking a different item, whether it's cursed monkey paws or any part of every animal deep fried and on a stick. He feels like every entertainment where would swallow him whole.

While he’s gawking, Prospect drags him away from the central display meant to lure in tourists like flames for the flies. They go down a foot-traffic only street, heading into another row of kiosks, sunshade benches, and theater marquees.

The brisk walk jostles the orb inside Tops. He shudders and has to stop walking. Even the slightly baggy pants feel a bit too tight on him.  “Gods, there’s just so _much_ to do.” He gasps.

“Take a deep breath,” Prospect says but his teeth are clenched. “It’s just a city. A big, fucking ugly city.”

But Tops can’t shake off that feeling. Not just yet. All around him are the tempting smells of food he’s never tasted and music he’s never heard. There’s a carnival to the far edge of town, visible only by the stout buildings and the beautiful Ferris wheel. Tops can’t remember the last time he went to a carnival or had a bit of naïve fun. Not even when he was an ugly crow chick was he allowed such fun.

“I always wanted to be like them…” Tops says and not to Prospect or anyone around him.

A slap across the face jostles Tops’ memory.

He looks at Prospect, growling. “The fuck was _that_ for?”

“You were losing it to the magic. Listen, this is all glamoured shit.” Prospect says, “Everything here’s enchanted to make one-night tourists go bonkers with their bucks. We’re here to do a job with your rat ass on the line, remember?”

Prospect’s cold words douse Tops’ fire. The fae swallows and rubs the sweat off his face.

“I fucking _hate_ fae cities.” He mumbles.

“Agreed.” Prospect looks at the stone. “Let’s go. The longer we’re in the streets, the worse it’s going to get.”

Even knowing that it's all advertising and magic trying to pump tourists for cash, its agonizing walking through Vow-of-Bliss. Everything wants Tops and Prospect’s attention and if not, they’re doing everything to make even the simplest thing look like the most entertaining and fun thing in the world. Making things worse are legionnaires. They’re on every corner in their red and bronze uniforms, eying everybody and making sure the tourists feel ‘safe’. Prospect and Tops give their courtesy nods like any citizen but keep along their way.

“How much further _is_ this place?” Tops asks.

The two are outside a plaza whose stonework is laid with colored glass and other gems. The political and government offices ringing the plaza are closed but still light up with neon decorations. Crowds of tourists take pictures of statues, landmarks, and other interesting tidbits. The tourists are mostly Unseelie aristocrats, with their hairless bodies, their small fine wrinkles, and long prominent ears. They wear skintight jumpsuits with the occasional veil or draped cape. Legionnaires make their rounds, making sure the tourists are safe and looking for ambitious purse-snatchers to rough up. One crowd, in particular, is clustered near the base of a statue of some Seelie lord or lady. Someone speaks with a megaphone but Tops has little interest in what’s being said.

Prospect is still walking toward the plaza. “Keep it moving, rat.”

Tops walks in front of the gremlin. “ _Listen_ to me, metal mouth! We’ve going in circles.”

Prospect points to the stone. “We’re not.”

“We _are!_ Look.” Tops points to the clock tower. Calling it a ‘clock tower’ is anachronistic, because it's more of a spire with clumps of crystal growing over the traditional brass and metal antique. “You’ve been looking at the stone but I’ve been looking at that gaudy thing. It’s been hours we’re no closer or further from it. _Circles._ ”

“It hasn’t been hours.” Prospect looks to the tower, then the stone. “The stone could be rerouting. Maybe there’s construction on the regular route--”

“You even _know_ where we goin’, chrome for brains?”

“Yes!” Prospect moves in close, showing rows of needle teeth with a snarl. “I’ve been there before, you rat fuck! Now come on!”

Tops is too agitated to be fearful. His feet hurt from the unresting walk, his head hurts from being bombarded with the city’s glamour, and the orb is pressed up against another part of him that he’d rather not think about.

“Then ya best use ya brain instead of dat busted rock!” Tops yells, “Ya fuckin’ floor greaser! Ya ain’t got da tack to know when gattaboutin’ this fuckin’ city! Ya keep it up, we gets da fuckin’ boots on us right quick us runabout!”

Prospect stares at Tops. For the first time since their meeting, the airplane gremlin’s doesn’t wear a snarl or a scowl. His face is entirely blank. A bead of sweat run down the side of Tops’s face, afraid that in the next moment Prospect is going to snap his neck. Instead…the corner of the gremlin’s mouth turn upward. There’s a snort and finally, Prospect bursts out laughing. It’s so loud that a nearby legionnaire turns his head, just as startled as Tops by the noise. Tops looks at the gremlin, unsure of what to make about the laughter. Eventually, the legionnaire shrugs and continues on their patrol.

Prospect snorts, finally choking down his snickering.

“Oh, my fucking _gods_.” Prospect chortles, “‘Floor greaser’? ‘Tack’? ‘ _Boots’_? Did you seriously just say that?”

Tops wishes he was the kind of fae to immediately elbow Prospect in the solar plexus. Instead, his face turns warm and suddenly he can’t look Prospect in the eye.

“No. Da… _the_ fuck are you talking about?” Tops asks. He speaks carefully, eventually working up the nerve to glare at Prospect.

“Lowly.” Prospect points at Tops smirking, “Fucking _knew_ it.”

There was that word again. Tops clutches his cane. If he had eaten a proper meal, he’d have enough strength to break it. For now, he only has burning outrage. “Do I _look_ fucking lowly to you?”

“Maybe.” Prospect licks his metal teeth as he studies Tops’ face. “Skin’s not dark enough for Seelie, not pale enough for Unseelie. Just that ‘lowly tan’ fae like you get from fucking everybody.”

“I’m too tall to be a lowly, fuckface!” Tops growls, “And I can read, write, and speak just as well as you can!”

“Speaking is up for debate. You sounded like a lowly right out of a play just a minute ago.” Prospect grins and his red eyes twinkle. “And only lowlies get rankled when someone finds them out. So what’d you do? Piss off the chief of your lowly village or pack or whatever you call it?”

 _“Fuck off!”_ Tops screams.

As if to punctuate the moment, there’s a loud _pop!_ followed by a distinctly smoky smell. Tops and Prospect simultaneously turn their head, looking toward the plaza. The screams slowly erupt and then the throng of tourists began moving towards them. Most of them are yelling in different dialects of fae language but Tops picks up smatterings of English, mostly ‘run’ and ‘bomb’. All Tops knows is that a stampede is coming toward them.

Prospect’s instincts kick in before Tops does. He swiftly moves toward the other fae, spreading his wings. They’re thick and leathery like a bat, black as the night sky. Tops doesn’t even have anything to say before Prospect wraps his muscular arms around him and launches into the sky. Tops yells, unused to being propelled into the air by someone else without warning. Prospect flies above the living sea of fae, moving into the air.

The gremlin flies up, finally moving them toward an apartment building. The two land on a fire escape, with Prospect holding onto Tops.

“L-let go!” Tops gasps.

Prospect grunts and drops the other fae. Tops’ ass hits the hard metal of the fire escape and he exhales suddenly.

“A ‘thank you’ would be nice, dickbag.” Prospect grumbles.

Tops gasps, feeling the orb shift inside of him. It's up against his prostate again and he shudders, suppressing a moan. His legs feel like jelly and he can hardly move. He looks through the fire metal bars of the fire escape of the plaza they just flew from. People are still fleeing and legionnaires are moving in close, with more arriving in a car.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Prospect asks, “Don’t tell me I hurt your precious feelings by figuring out your ‘secret’.”

“My feelings aren’t hurt. You just…grabbed me in a certain way.” Tops pants and forces himself to sit up. He grabs the ledge of the fire escape, breathing shallowly so he doesn’t fall over and cum all over his pants.

“Whoa,” Prospect says.

“What now?” Tops rubs his face, looking down in the plaza. He’s too far away to see if any arrests are being made, but he’s sure _someone’s_ getting the shit kicked out of them for this. Whether they’re related to the bomb or not is yet to be determined.

Prospect smirks. “You get excited from flight or are you just hot and bothered from our argument?”

Tops curses, hoping he wasn’t hard but of course, his body is choosing _this_ moment as the time to be an incompetent dick (in more ways than one).

“It has nothing to do with you.” Tops says because he’s not about to explain to Prospect why his life is on a timer before a demented crime boss shoved a magic orb/tracking device/sex toy/possible means of his demise up his ass. “Can we get going now? We’re still on the clock.”

“Sure. Not like your lowly ass got plenty of time on hand like me.” Prospect looks at the stone, “GPS is rerouting. Whoever was using that explosive must have had some magic shit that was screwing with things.”

“I’m not a lowly and can’t you just reroute it?”

“Not without a mage. It’s preprogrammed.”

“Then let’s just fly the whole way!”

“Flying’s a good way to get yourself noticed in the wrong way. We go on foot.” Prospect gives Tops a sidelong glance. “You ready to be picked up or you afraid it’s gonna make you cum?”

“You grabbed me in a weird way! It has _nothing_ to do with you!” Tops protests. Prospect rolls his eyes and Tops realizes he may never live this down. “Let’s just fucking _go_ already.”

Prospect picks him up and Tops shudders and tries not to squirm. Prospect doesn’t say anything about it. He lifts them off the fire escape and coasts on the warm thermals of the city below them. Prospects moves down, landing in a neighborhood full of apartment buildings and small general stores selling overpriced trinkets as souvenirs. Tops is glad to be on the ground, exhaling shallowly.

Tops takes one step and wobbles as the orb moves again. Hopefully, its done jostling for a while but a breathy “F-fuck…” still escapes him.

Prospect snorts, unable to stop smiling and Tops glares at him.

“Fuck up the shut.” Tops gasps, out of breath and too tired from this excursion. The fact he hasn’t had a decent meal in days in definitely starting to get to him. “How far are we?”

Prospect looks at the stone. “Not far.”

They only walk for thirty more minutes before Prospect stops saying “We’re here” with a lack of ceremony. Tops had expected Virgil to have them at some dingy drug filled den or a crack house hidden in this city. Instead, they stand in front of a quaint antique shop. The neighborhood isn’t the nicest but there are other fae walking around and not all of them look like addicts. The store is dark but above is an apartment with the lights on.

Prospect rings the doorbell. Thirty minutes later, the door opens. A woman answers with pointed ears and hook-claw hands. She walks with a stoop and she looks more bat than an old Asian woman. Her hair is a nicely brushed but obvious black wig.

The woman smiles peacefully and holds up a chalkboard. It says _You are late!_ in faetongue.

“Yeah, sorry.” Prospect says, “There was a hold up.”

The woman nods and then points to Tops.  

“New recruit, pending he doesn’t fuck up,” Prospect adds.

The woman blinks her small red eyes and then nods. She walks inside, gesturing for Tops and Prospect to follow.

The antique store is everything annoying and kitschy that Tops hates back home. There are cabinets of jewelry, collector edition coins, military memorabilia, a wall of folk art, and always the ugly wooden furniture that always seems to plague this kind of stores. The only difference between human and fae antique shops is that fae don’t peddle “authentic” cultural relics like dreamcatchers and fetish necklaces. 

The old woman walks behind the counter and unlocks a door. She flips a switch and walks down the steps. Prospect silently follows and so does Tops, but he stops at the top of the cellar stairs. A smell hits his nose, stinking of decay and blood. It's an awful and familiar scent that turns his stomach. Prospect looks over his shoulder, glaring at Tops. Daring him to run.

Tops swallow and walks down the cellar stairs. He’s smelt far worse. He moves into the cellar, preparing himself for what lies at the bottom.

The cellar is a do-it-yourself butcher shop. The back wall is lined with bathtubs and a system of water runs into them, jury-rigged with rubber hose, PVC piping, and duct tape. Meat hooks hang from the ceiling, sharp and menacing. The rest of the cellar’s space is taken up by large plastic tables, complete with drains meat for collecting the blood from the prepared meat.

Hanging on a hook is an angel. Like all angels, it has a serene humanoid shape and feathered wings. Like all angels, they are missing a key feature that prevent true perfect humanity. This one has no head, just a smooth stump. Shimmering maggots fall from its rotting flesh, plopping into the plastic tub below.

It’s the first time Tops has ever seen an angel and it's in sorry shape. If there’s a better metaphor for his life, then he doesn’t  want to know what it is.

The old woman taps Tops on the shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Tops look at her and she holds up the slate. The old woman points a gnarled claw at the word written on it— _Choko_ —and then points to herself.

“Tops.” Top says. He turns away from the dead angel, trying to put it out of his mind. “Is there a reason you don’t talk?”

Choko smiles and opens her mouth. A three-foot long tongue falls out, dripping with saliva. Tops gags, immediately looking away. Choko chuckles, rolling her tongue back into her mouth.

Prospect laughs at Tops’ face. “You _had_ to ask, huh rat?”

Choko erases her name and writes on the slate, holding it up to Prospect. _Package?_

Tops blinks. He looks at Prospect face draining of blood. “Package.” he whispers, “Oh my gods. We didn’t. We don’t….oh gods, we didn’t--”

“Jesus and Dahl, rat! Calm down!” Prospect says, looking at his face, “You look ready to pass out.”

Tops does feel ready to pass out. Maybe it’s the fact he pulled open a gate earlier on nothing but an energy bar and fear or dealing with the bombardment of Vow-of-Bliss’s glamour and the stress of seeing an angel in the dead flesh, but he doesn’t feel too good. His stomach feels more hollow than it should and with a strong breeze, he’d topple right over. He hears Choko writing and Prospect shakes his head.

“We came a long way and--” Prospect stops and looks at Tops, “ _Shit,_ I didn’t feed you did I?”

“No, dickbag.” Tops grunts.

“Don’t give me that look. I didn’t expect a pet rat today.”

“If I _was_ your pet rat, I’d call some PETA dickheads on you.”

Prospect rolls his eyes and leads Tops to a folding chair. He shows the other fae down. “Stay put.”

The gremlin returns to Choko. He unbuttons his shirt, revealing that the flesh and metal are interwoven throughout his body. He touches a seam in the center of his chest, digging in his claws. There’s a rusty, creaking sound like an old hinge and Prospect opens his chest like a glove compartment. Inside is a glowing beating heart and other metal-flesh organs. Prospect rummages inside his chest cavity, pulling out a small package wrapped in wax paper and tagged like supermarket deli meat.

Choko grins, greedily seizing the package. She places it on a table, pushing aside an electric carving knife and metal mesh gloves. She unwraps the package, revealing hands and feet— _human_ hands and feet, Tops notices—to the dim cellar lights. Choko clucks her tongue as she examines the dismembered parts, studying it like a jeweler with a fine gem. When her examination is done, Choko hobbles to a metal cabinet in the far corner of the cellar. She reaches inside, returning to Prospect with a small cardboard box with a floral card taped to it.

Choko hands the package like a grandmother would give her grandchildren.

 _Give my regards to darling Virgil._ she writes.

“I always do.” Prospect places the package back in his chest. “Know anyplace where we can get something quick and cheap? These clubs will fucking gouge us. Preferably close to the edge of town.”

Choko thinks and then writes on her slate, _The carnival is always free._

“Oh great. A haven for carnies and disease.” Tops grunts.

“You wanna be picky, rat? You’re still on the clock.”

Thoughts of the clock remind Tops what is lodged in his ass. The orb isn’t against his prostate again but there’s always the dual fear of it moving again or exploding. Neither is ideal but Tops certainly doesn’t want _Death by aristocrat sex toy_ as his epitaph.  

“Let's just go.” Tops grumbles.

Tops is still unsteady on his feet but he summons enough energy to get them from Choko’s antique shop to the trolley stop down the street. The trolley is another ugly machine mutant, shaped like an angler fish and purposely distracting drivers so it can take quick passes. Its also crowded with children and teenagers, talking about the carnival, school, and other nonsense. Prospect is the picture of zen, zoning out this idiocy and Tops…well, Tops grits his teeth and tries not to think of murdering everyone under the age of eighteen.

Tops now knows what hell must be like--loud, crowded, and full of children. When the trolley finally stops at the carnival, Tops leaps out the machine. Well, not ‘leap’. ‘Lurch’ is slightly more accurate. ‘Dehydrated, exhausted, disoriented shamble’ is completely accurate. 

Prospect grabs him before he’s knocked over by the swarm of children and teens on awkward first dates rushing toward the carnival gates.

The carnival has no tollbooths, barriers, gates, or fencing that separates it from the rest of the gaudy, ugly city. It looks like it sprung up naturally like a seed fallen from a chintzy tree that’s decided to sprout just in the shade of its parent. Tents and rides spread through the neighborhood, having absorbed it long ago for its own purpose. Nothing is bolted down and everything jostles with mechanics and magic, from the Ferris wheel to the haunted house and tunnel of love. Everything worms through a different building, different homes, different offices—all sacrificed for this carnival.

Tops has no interest in it. He drags Prospect (as much as he can drag the walking pile of muscles and metal) toward the smell of fried deliciousness. He points at everything he wants, not even bothering Prospect with a conversation about prices and how much the fae can eat.

“If you want us to find a way home, you’ll fucking let me eat.” Tops says like a deranged man who’s crawled through the desert and survived on fire ants and cactus juice.

Within minutes Prospect has assembled a pile of food with a gallon-sized soda. It’s the worst of everything the carnival has to offer the stomach: hamburgers, hotdogs, and several deep fried chunks of _something._ It smells greasy and fried and everything Tops has every wanted. Tops shovels it in his mouth without a second thought.

“Gods, this is awful.” He says while chewing, “Fuck, this shit is so terrible. Who the hell can eat like this?”

“Try not to spray so much fried twinkie at me while you’re saying that.” Prospect grunts.

Tops swallows the fried twinkie and moves onto the cheeseburger. The crispness of the lettuce combined with the hamburger meat ( _if_ it's hamburger and not some weird replacement) is almost too much to bear. It reminds him too much of home, of being a child looking for dumped electronics and legionnaire bastards.

“Fuck,” Tops says and feels his eyes get misty. He shakes off the feeling, distracting himself with the ugliness of Vow-of-Bliss. “Who the hell would want to live here surrounded by all this nonsense?”

“I’m sure those who can afford to have glamour neutralizers,” Prospect says. “When was the last time you ate?”

“The fuck you care?” Tops has already finished the hamburger and is moving onto the hot dog. Prospect says nothing, only gives him a level headed stare with those red eyes. Tops rolls his eyes. “It’s been a while. Maybe a week ago.”

“ _Maybe_ a week?” Tops shrugs. “What happened to your money? You’re a drug dealer.”

“Maintenance.” Tops shrugs, “Plus, I’m small time. Nothing like your boss.” He points to Virgil’s chest, “So what’s the deal with that? That a gremlin thing or just a ‘you’ thing?”

“Gremlin thing,” Prospect says, “and you’re going to barf if you eat all of that in one go.”

“Nah. I don’t.” Tops is almost done with the second hot dog now.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t’?”

“I don’t vomit. Don’t worry about it.”

Prospect’s eyes narrow. “So what’s _your_ deal?”

Tops rolls his eyes. “I’m a guy with few options in life.”

“Not that, idiot,” Prospect says, “The last bunch of lowlies took off for Pennsylvania and Canada. Where’d _you_ come from?”

“Where do you? Where do _any_ of us?” Tops huffs, “Priests would say we’re the stuff of mayfly dreams but have you _seen_ mayflies? Their dreams are either stupid or fucking racist. Who _gives_ a shit about who we are?”

Tops looks past the gremlin’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to focus on those red eyes demanding some truth from him. Children and teens are entering and leaving the park at a steady rate, barely aware of their environment. The only ones that stand out are two grassmen lingering by a stand selling fried mushrooms. The grassmen are in jumpsuits with their fur making the clothes look bulgy and prickly. They’re glancing around, doing a poor job of not looking at Tops and Prospect.

Tops gets up, pretending to adjust his jacket collar. “You see them?”

Prospect picks up the remaining plastic plates and paper trays, discreetly looking at the grassmen. He narrows his eyes and then looks to Tops. “You got enough energy in you to run?”

“Not for long.” Tops squints at the grassmen. Their orange eyes are darting around, scanning the area for something interesting. They man-apes aren’t common in Top’s neck of the woods but there are always tourists and Midwest immigrants. Tops turns his head to the carnival distractions, from the tables and chairs of the concession stands to the maze of amusement park structures. “Follow me.”

Prospect moves close and Tops takes his arm. The gremlin gives him a look crossed between confusion and alarm. 

“Don’t run. Just move along with me.” Tops says. In the noise of the carnival, there’s no need the whisper. Grassmen don’t have good hearing to begin with. “We’re two teenagers on a date.”

“You mean one teenager and someone committing statutory.”

“Which would be you?”

“Like hell you’d pass for a teen. You barely pass as ‘adult’.”

Tops elbows Prospect, who barely notices the impact. “I’m only a few years past teen and you’re ruining the illusion!”

“This better work.” Prospect moves his arm from Tops’, wrapping it around the smaller fae’s waist instead. “And gremlins don’t hold onto each other’s arms.”

“Great.” Tops grunts. The gremlin stinks of aftershave and motor oil. Whatever he eats has seeped its scent into his body.

They follow another crowd of children into a venue of distractions: gun slingers, mini basketball, skee ball, balloon dart, ball crawl fun house, glass houses, tilt-a-whirl, a haunted house, log flumes, and a carousel. The larger attractions like the glass house, ball pits, and haunted houses have taken over old tenements and storefronts, long since abandoned to the growing and ever-present carnival.

“We can lose them in the glass house,” Prospect says.

“We’ll get lost ourselves. Haven’t you seen a movie?” Tops moves toward the haunted house. “This way. We have the advantage.”

“Of what kind?” Prospect glances at the haunted house. The tenement windows have pictures of snarling humans brandishing knives and a cloaked man with a sickle. “This place looks like it’ll fall down any second.”

“It hasn’t so far.” Tops says and enters the haunted house.

The home is an old Victorian house, like one you’d find in the human ghettos. There is a statue of a butler and maid, demanding a payment in exchange for entry, along with a long list of those who shouldn’t enter the walking tour. While Prospect purchases tickets, Tops looks out the painted window. It's tinted blue but the Grassmen are still following, bumping into the crowds as they stand nearby.

Once fed a ticket, the butler points a metal hand to the left. Tops and Prospect follow, leaving the gallery and heading into a broad hallway through a curtained doorway. Ahead of them is another gaggle of teenagers, mostly lizard-men and enfield horrors that make up Vow-of-Bliss’ middle and lower classes.

“Who do you think they’re with?” Tops asks, meaning the Grassmen who are no doubt right behind them. “Ice Lilies? Blue Blood Syndicate? Rebel Tribes?”

“I wish. Rebel Tribes are less annoying.” Prospect says, “I don’t know who they are exactly. They’re new in town though, coming up from the Deep South. Grassmen are just hires. Don’t know who else is part of it. Maybe something worse.” He looks sideways at Tops, “They’re plenty interested in you, trying to make a name for themselves.”

Tops has a feeling the implication is that they’d want to ‘recruit’ him in the same way that Virgil ‘recruited’ him. Yet something tells him that the grassmen are going to be considerably less admirable than Virgil’s barely there courtesy.

The two move ahead, passing by placards giving grisly detail leading up to the first horror they’re to see in this house. Another group of teens enter behind them as they come up on the first display. A wax figure of the beautiful Kate Bender channels a spirit while her father bashes in the head of a hapless traveler.

The group ahead of them moves at a slow pace, causing Tops and Prospect to weave around them as they gawk and murmur at a wax figure of the bisected and bloodied Black Dahlia. They leave the hall, heading into one of the bedrooms where Lizzie Borden skulks in the corner with her ax.

Tops checks at the door they entered in and the door they’re meant to exit. He moves behind the faux Victorian furniture, pushing at the walls. Finally, his fingers sink into an area covered by a curtain.

“Here.” He says and pulls aside the curtain. He reveals a path lit with lights and weaving through the background of the haunted house. “This way.”

Prospect follows, entering the backlit hall. The sound effects of the haunted house are louder here, echoing through the home. The tall gremlin has to walk at a squat so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. “How’d you know this was here?” he asks.

“All these places have back areas for the maintenance crew.” Tops moves further down the hall. Through the curtain, he can see the back of the H.H. Holmes and Greenbrier Ghost figures along with more bedroom furniture as they pass from one room to the next. “Do you have a gun with a silencer?”

“Silencers aren’t real,” Prospect says in a tone one takes on when talking to a child.

“Then do you have a gun with a silencing hex on it?” Tops hisses.

“No, just a regular gun.” Prospect taps his chest, alluding to where he’s hidden it. “And it’s a last resort. Legionnaires aren’t very cool on guns, even if you have a good reason to fire it.”

“Wonderful.” Tops pauses, hearing footsteps ahead of them in the tunnel. He moves aside into an area where the Boston Strangler stalks his mannequin victim. He presses Prospect against the wall.

“What are you--” Prospect starts but Tops doesn’t let him finish. Without flinching, he presses his lips against the gremlin’s. The gremlin doesn’t have bottom lips, only a metal maw. Its cold and he tastes like gasoline. Prospect doesn’t have protest in mind. He slides a claw down Tops’ hips, metal digging into him. The orb moves and Tops shudders, barely able to stifle a moan.

Whoever is investigating the back area of the haunted house finally turns away. Tops suppresses another shudder—another indication of sudden weakness—as he pulls away from the kiss and the gremlin. Prospect’s stunned expression only lasts for a few seconds before anger returns.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Prospect growls.

“Word to the wise with carnies,” Tops says, “they don’t bother anyone who’s getting ready to fuck.”

“We weren’t.”

“They didn’t know that.” Tops hears more footsteps, sees the Grassmen following behind another group of teens. They point and gawk at the Boston Strangler, while the Grassmen are still looking around. The teens keep moving, walking past figures of the Werewolf of Wysteria and Liver-eating Johnson before exiting the bedroom.

Tops looks to Prospect, nodding slowly. He focuses on his hand, changing it into a sharp claw. He tears open a hole in the curtain with the sound of tearing fabric masked by the haunted house’s annoyingly loud soundtrack. The teens move ahead and so do the Grassmen. Prospect moves faster than they do though. He seizes the grassmen’s heads, smashing them together. It’s a temporary stun as Grassmen are made hardier than that. Prospect makes quick work of the shorter grassman, knocking him into the harder section of the bedroom wall. He yanks off the Werewolf of Wysteria’s cheap plastic arm and uses it as a bludgeoning tool. Then he goes to the other Grassmen.

Tops has no interest in the violence. He keeps an eye out in the haunted house but no other teens come. Its late at night and few are really interested in the marked pathway of the haunted house. Its likely the teens have found outside routes just as they have. The carnies either can’t hear the fighting or want no parts of it. _Nothing_ about this job is worth getting injured for.

“Wait! Wait!” Tops looks back to where Prospect stands. The other grassman’s been bludgeoned into unconsciousness, possibly death, but the other is still alert. “Don’t fucking gut me and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Prospect has his claws on the grassman’s hairy throat. “How do we know it’s the truth?”

“I don’t want to die,” the grassman gags.

Tops moves in before Prospect can make the choice for them both. “Who sent you?”

“I don’t know!” Prospect must add pressure with his claws because the grassman gasps, “I really _don’t_. Fuckers never take off the hoods. We’re just mercs. Told us to be on the lookout for skinny mixed breed fae who was moving shit. Wanted them alive.”

“You’re eager to give up your employer,” Prospect says.

“Fuckers ain’t _paying_ us! They just moved in. Killed our leader with them… _tools_ of theirs. Ain’t nobody want parts of them.” The grassman shudders. “Listen, take me with you.”

“And your employers?” Tops asks.

“Fuck ‘em. I’m dead or dissected either way.”

Tops considers it but Prospect doesn’t. He crushes the grassman’s throat, watching the fae twitch and gurgle in agony as death comes. Grassmen are hardy as century-old trees but its rare for them to survive a crushed larynx.

“What’d you do that? He was giving up info.” Tops says.

“And he told us what we need to know.” Prospect moves the bodies quickly. Both are pushed into the maintenance tunnel, shrouded by the curtain. If anyone notices the smell, it won’t be immediate. “We got enough hired muscle as is.”

Tops grunts but moves back into the tunnel. The sight of corpses makes his stomach squirm but he’s dealt with them enough to not be entirely disgusted. He goes through the merc’s pockets but finds nothing interesting: wallets with human and fae cash but no ID. He pockets the cash anyway.

The two don’t have to say anything to each other. They’re done with this place, from the garish figures to the annoying fake soundtrack. The two exit from the bedroom, leading into the master bedroom, and living room. There they enter another maintenance tunnel and find their way outside, into the back of the haunted house. Boomboxes are wired to the windows along with electric generators and spotlights to function for the rest of the display. There’s probably ten more rooms of garish horror but they’re not here for that. The carnies are crowded around a lamp, sharing everything from pills and blunts to needles and sex. It’s nothing anyone should see, even if they are taking deviant paths in life like Tops is.

They hop the fences that separated the back of the haunted house from the other displays. They move down an empty alleyway, littered with trash and other evidences of misery. There are no businesses trying to attract attention, only low-rent tenements cluttered with more people than should be allowed. The misery of lower class living, overcrowding, lack of businesses, and sporadic electricity is enough to dull Vow-of-Bliss’s concentrated capitalist euphoria. For the first time in this miserable city, Tops’ mind feels clear.

“Why’d you take the cash? It’s just a few bucks.” Prospect asks. In this dim place, there’s no danger in openly discussing what went on. No one here would give the legionnaires the time of day.  

“They’ll think its just a robbery is why.” Tops says, “Then no one’s going to look any further.”

Prospect raises an eyebrow. “Did the carnival circuit too, huh?”

“No, but a lot of my customers do. The Big E is like Christmas for them.”  

They move into another neighborhood. Tops can see the crystalline wall that surrounds Vow-Of-Bliss so they must be close to one of the exits. The night is moving on and the children in the streets are heading in the direction of home, likely to spend the weekend in comfort or maybe before their personal curfews come into the matter.

“Gods, look at all these whelps. Who lets their children run around like this? It's madness.” Tops grunts. He keeps a wide berth between him and all these screaming near-tots. “Humans have the right idea. Keep the brats inside. Give them videogames and TV. Keep’s them quiet, fat, and out of the way.”

“So…who taught you that making out is the best way to get people to avoid you?” Prospect asks with a wide grin.

“Who the hell has ten kids with them at one time? Are they mad?” Tops is looking as a swarm of children gather onto a trolley, this one shaped like a grinning cat. “Look at those brats. They’re all the same age. You think some whelping rougarou just went and had a litter?”

“I doubt they’re all related and seriously? You’re going to ignore what just happened?”

“The fact that a bunch of ugly orangutans nearly murdered us? The fact that some weird shadowy group of people _also_ nearly murdered us?”

“The moan you did! Do you…” Prospect smirks, “Oh my gods, you think I’m hot don’t you?”

“Do you have a one track mind?” Tops says but does not look at the gremlin. Right now, he’s focusing on getting the hell out of Vow-Of-Bliss and gating out of here. With every step, the orb jostles inside of him. It’s gotten worse since the haunted house.

 _Wait…how much time has passed?_ Tops knows it can’t be more than twenty-four hours but time is always fluxing when you’re hoping between the barriers of two worlds.

“Do you have a watch?” he asks.

“ _Now_ you’re being coy.” Prospect rolls his eyes, “For the record, I don’t fuck rats. Gods know how many diseases you have.”

“Sounds more like you’re talking yourself out of it and do you have a fucking watch, moron?” Tops asks, “I’m on a time limit before this thing destroys my ass.”

“…what?”

Tops pauses, recalls what he just said, and then looks at Prospect, “I mean, like the time limit. Your boss destroying my ass is what I meant.”

“I don’t think you did.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tops says, “and tell me what _time_ it is already.”

“We’ve only been here for a few hours, idiot!” Prospect says.

Tops is already halfway to the trolley stop. “And you’re _still_ wasting my time with bullshit for some reason!” he yells over his shoulder.

Thankfully this interaction allows for the ride _out_ of Vow-of-Bliss to be more quiet than the one arriving. Tops’ suffers in near silence, fidgeting as the trolley goes over every bump and divot in the road without regard for the orb sitting inside of him. He grits his teeth but can’t stop fidgeting, refusing to look Prospect in the eye. He really hopes the orb hasn’t moved _too_ deep inside of him, because there’s no way Virgil could remove it without some surgical interlude. At least the trolley isn’t crowded: it's only Virgil, Prospect, and two vagrants heading to whatever they’re calling home in the swamplands.

Prospect snaps his head eastward. “Get down.”

“What?” is the only word Tops gets out before things immediately turn to shit.

A blast hits them, not of fire or lightning but of simple arcane _force_ shoving at the trolley. The trolley tumbles sideways, falling off the plateau road. It rolls down the hillock once, finally settled into a ditch. The spin knocks the vagrants out but Prospect wraps his arm around Tops’ waist before he goes flying too. Tops gasps in an undignified manner that is half shock, half the orb moving in him, as Prospect holds on. The gremlin must be used to tumbling through the air because he keeps a tight, protective hold on Tops.

They go rolling out of the trolley, landing on the grass right next to it. They’re hidden in the shadow of the mutant machine shaped like a brass squid. Prospect has his hand over Tops’ mouth, not risking a word from the other fae.

Tops doesn’t focus on the orb pressing in him or the smell of Prospect’s metal-salt sweat or the loud buzz of insects. He waits for whatever attacked the trolley to come toward them. That kind of arcane takes time to build up. Something was waiting for them.

One of the vagrants doesn’t wait. They stagger to their feet and make a run for it. Not too far off, a horse whinnies and a cold wind blows in the humid marshlands. Tops doesn’t trust it to be _just_ a temperature fluctuation.

Prospect removes his hand from Tops’ mouth.  “What’s the closest gate?”

Even panicked and in the darkness of the marshland, Tops doesn’t have to stretch his innate magic far to feel the gates. The old gates are all around, scattered through the deeper parts of the murkiest areas. The only problem is picking out which gate is the strongest for their trip back.

“Thirty miles in every other direction.” Tops whispers back, “West is the strongest, but I only got enough energy for maybe one jump and it’ll be risky.”

Prospect exhales, “Hold on.”

Hooves move on stone, inching ever closer to them. Tops has no time to ask what Prospect has in mind before the gremlin seizes him. With one leap, Prospect launches himself off the grass and into the air. His wings extend and he soars on adrenaline and warm air alone. Tops’ stomach sinks from the sudden yank of gravity and then exhales as he tries to get a look at what’s chasing after them. He sees only a cluster of white on the road and the lights and sounds of emergency and maintenance vehicles approaching.

The white on the road doesn’t stay on the road long. They take to the air as well, manning pale horses with shining red eyes. Their glamour is thick, playing the sounds of wild music and making everything turn cold and foggy. The music is erratic, playing something old and jazzy with muted trumpets and clarinets. White shrouded men ride their maggot-pale horses, brandishing scissors, scalpels, and other surgical tools like sane fae would swords and shields. One of them has a gun, taking aim at Prospect.

Tops doesn’t know what the fuck they are but he doubts they’re friendly. Prospect’s eyes are ahead for the skies near fae cities are infamously cluttered and deadly as the roads.

“Down!” Tops yells.

The warning comes too late. The shrouded man cracks off a bullet and it flies through the air. Prospect moves down but his wing is still struck. The gremlin falls at an uncontrolled speed, using only the working wing to slow their descendant to a non-deadly but still hazardous pace. Tops shuts his eyes as they make impact. Branches snap and birds fly as they hit the dense woodland of the marsh. They strike the wet mud and watery muck of the swamp hidden beneath the mangroves.

The swamp is deep but not deep enough to smother them. Tops is the first to surface, spitting and pushing away at the water. He knows from childhood how to swim through such ugly conditions.

“Prospect?” Tops calls, “Prospect? Idiot gremlin fuck?” There’s no immediate response and the panic rises, “Shit, don’t be dead--”

“Over here, fuckface.” Prospect hisses. The gremlin has landed at the base of a tree. His fall was harder than Tops, landing chest-first on the middle portion of a thick root. His injured wing refuses to fold into his body, making movement all the more difficult.

Tops sloshes over to him, crawling out of the flooded wetness and over to the relatively dry grass. The music of the white shrouds is still coming but he ignores his fear. Fear leads to panic and panic is for animals and lowlies.

“Can you walk?” Tops asks.

Prospect braces himself on the root, forcing his body in an upright position. “Yeah, but wings and ribs fucked up.” he wheezes, “L-listen, open my chest. Take the package. I can be a distraction--”

“No.” Tops says.

“They can’t get us both--”

Tops stands, rising to his meager height. “No, fuck you!”

It may be the adrenaline, it may be the unnerving music or the life-or-death desperation of this situation…but it can also be another thing. An old thing in Tops’ mind that reminds him of not being a handsome fae with a winning smile and long curly hair but of being a crow chick surrounded by marshland and having few options. Immediately that old learning kicks back into Tops, like fresh fuel in an old engine. He lifts up Prospect, getting the gremlin to his feet by letting him lean on him. He pushes through the pain and distractions, moving up the slippery grass and heading forward.

“Are you insane?” Prospect hisses, “You’ll get us both killed!”

“Fuck you, gremlin. I do what I want.” Tops wobbles, nearly topples over, but by some miracle remains upright. The orb moves but he grits his teeth. It's only a distraction. The music is still coming and he hopes the Disappointments’ marshland is too thick for those white shroud bastards.

“Fine.” Prospect reaches inside his chest. He pulls out the gun hidden along with the package. “If we die this way, I’m haunting you.”

“You won’t be the only one,” Tops says and trudges forward.

Times moves too fast when one’s life is on the line. Tops moves with Prospect, half-carrying him and half-straining his senses for the first feel of a proper gate. Prospect keeps his eyes skyward, taking shots at the white shrouds that come too close. The crowding clutter of trees hides them from the nonexistent eyes of the white shrouds and the paths too narrow for them to squeeze into with their horses. It all seems to go on for seconds but it could be minutes or hours in reality.

Tops shoves his body ahead, moving into a clearing of trees. Prospect wheezes through his pain. The white shrouds descend, their shrieking almost swallowing their erratic music. The creatures have no true faces, only shadows cast by the rotting skeletons under the hoods. Prospect’s bat-like face is pale with fear.

Tops does what he knows best: he flips off the night riders.

“Fuck you, Ringwraiths.” he says and tears open the gate without ceremony.

To ease a gate open is like picking a lock. There’s a fine art to it, a slow and patient elegance that any thief knows. To break one open is like bludgeoning a door with a ten-pound hammer: it gets the job done and anyone can do it, but gods does it pack a wallop.

Magic explodes from the forced open gate, sucking at all of those present. Without control, the gate is just an all-consuming vacuum that wants everything inside of it. The trees bend and twist with the force, twisting in ways that go against nature. Tops grasps Prospect’s hand like a lifeline and leaps toward the unyielding gateway. Prospect yells as the gate yanks them in. The two go tumbling toward it, but they’re not alone in this madness.

The nightriders are along for the ride, but they’re not concerned about Tops and Prospect anymore. They’re screaming in rage, fear, and confusion as they make their way through the void. Traveling through an unyielding gate is chaos, with the light and color of both the homestead and the colonies distorted around them in a tunnel. Tops reaches for tunnel’s end, seeing the dark hole representing their destination.

Tops would shout to Prospect about staying close to him, but the terrified gremlin is clinging onto Tops for dear life. Not that shouting would make much of a difference. The gateway is always silent.

The gate spits the duo out first. They land on ground but Tops doesn’t stay down for long. He crawls over to the gate, grasping at the air. He seizes the seams of the gateway, knotting it shut like a sailor’s ropework all over a ship. The gate’s magic fizzles and pops and then stabilizes with a pulse of magic that finally knocks Tops back. He lands back where Prospect has, in a mountain of old clothes and dirty towels.

Prospect is wheezing, lying in the pile. “You…what did you _do_?” he gasps.

Tops climbs out of the pile and helps Prospect to his feet. “I closed it.”

Tops isn’t paying attention to the conversation so much as the location. He looks around the tall towers of garbage, the abandoned washing machines, and plastic bags. The scent is familiar and he knows he’s back in the colonies, in that ugly junkyard where all this bullshit first got its start. He’d be more thankful if he wasn’t so damned annoyed and sick of the fucking place by now.

Prospect doesn’t share in the annoyance or maybe he’s too injured and surprised to really care. “Closed what?” he asks.

“The gate, idiot.” Tops is already trying to move away from the gate, still supporting the gremlin, “Too close of a call though. We gotta move.”

“You closed a gate? _That_ quickly?” Prospect licks his dry lips, breathing haggardly. He’s still clutching the gun, trembling from pain. “T-this is some bullshit…you just can’t…”

“Shut up already. You’re gonna pass out and I can’t carry your heavy ass.” Tops’ adrenaline is starting to wear thin. Opening and shutting the gate took a lot out of him and there’s other things to worry about in this junkyard. “I don’t know if that thing will--”

Loud shrieking tears through the air. Tops looks over his shoulder and sees light ripple where the gate once was. A rotting claw piercing through the air and finally tears open a portal, forcing it open. A single nightrider emerges, wielding a shotgun and screaming in its mangled language.

“Fuck me.” Tops gasps.

“Sure, if we survive this.” Prospect says, “But guess what?” He holds up the gun, grinning like a man in too much pain to be serious. “No bullets left.”

“Fuck this noise. Plan B.” Tops moves further into the landfill, still holding the gremlin’s arm.

“What’s Plan B?” Prospect asks.

Tops doesn’t answer because Plan B is still forming in his head. His brain and feet seem to be on autopilot as he runs, remembering the night that brought him here in the first place. He moves behind a tower of soda cans and old computer monitors. The music is less loud than it was before but it's just as nerve wracking. Tops pushes Prospect into the side of the garbage pile. Tops squeezes next to him.

Tops doesn’t know what to do next. He’s never prayed before. All he has are his mother’s vague worships and honors and he doesn’t have anything to offer the wasteland. He’s forgotten all the lowly words for what he should be doing. So instead, he stays still. He remains silent.

The two are nestled into the garbage. Neither of them notice the smell. Instead, they listen to the shrouded one. Sans horse, the creature’s footsteps are silent and the white shroud always rustling.  

A wall of debris collapses in their way. Prospect startles but Tops holds him, keeping the gremlin still.

The shrouded one shrieks and screams. There’s a loud _crunch_ and the music glamour ends just as quickly. Only then does Tops move from the garbage tower. He looks just in time to see the debris recede back into the garbage piles, coagulating together like blood. The smell of death and decay is everything with Tops unable to distinguish if its just him, if the smell is new, or if it’s the permanent identity of the wasteland now.

Instead of wondering, Tops looks at the tallest garbage pile. It looks like a pyramid monument, high and close to touching the colony’s moon. At the summit of the debris pile is a scrawny thing, squatting like a dragon over its hoard. It is human-shaped or fae-shaped but it is neither. It is nude, splotched with black mud and oils that hide their face and body.

“Who are you?” Tops whispers.  

The only thing looks down at him. It smiles and in the moonlight, its silvered grin is the only thing visible about its dripping and desecrated body.

“Just some junk ya wanna forget.” it says. Its voice may have musical or clownish but now its gargled with glass and inhaled too many solvents.

“Do you…have a name?” Top asks.

“Maybe.” It tilts its head. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Tops swallows, still looking at the creature, “but I won’t tell you.”

The thing stands. Tops can’t tell it's sex with the thick layer of black oil.

“Then ya not as dumb as ya look!” the thing laughs.

The thing jumps off the garbage pyramid. Its body unfolds, becoming liquid and ooze as it melds into the landfill’s darkness. It's laughter does not fade, only echoes as it travels far away.

Tops stands in the landfill, stinking and sweating. Wondering if he’s even alive or if he dreamed all of that including that creature. He thinks back to those days as a crow chick in his mothers’ sod house, when he sat and listened to the stories. He knew the wasteland was cursed by the single soul lost there…but it's just a story _._

 _Lowlies know nothing_ , he tells himself and this he knows is truth. _His_ truth.

Tops returns to Prospect. Perhaps it was the stress of the situation or the injury, but the gremlin has passed out. If he saw the creature, Tops doesn’t know. All Tops knows is that Prospect must have a way to communicate with Virgil. He digs through Prospect’s pockets and finds a burner phone with only one number on it: _Boss._ Tops dials it and doesn’t wait long.

 _//“This better be important. You’re interrupting my favorite show.”//_ Virgil says.

“We need a pick up at the junkyard.” Tops says.

If Virgil is surprised by the different speaking voice, he shows no interest in it. _//“Interesting, Tops. Where’s Prospect?”//_

“Passed out. Send us a car and a first aid kit.” Tops says.

 _//“I don’t see why I need to.”//_ Virgil says, _//“Your legs still function after all and I owe you no favors.”//_

“The fuck you don’t!” Tops snaps, “I just ran around an ugly ass city, got chased around by grassmen, then by some white cloak dickbags on horses with their fucking weird ass jazz music, then some junkyard demon pops out of fucking nowhere to dick around with me, plus I ate carnival food so I’m probably going to spend the next twelve hours shitting myself inside out!  
So if you want your fucking ‘package’, you better send us a fucking car or I’ll summon a legionnaire and risk dealing with them because _they’re looking pretty fucking good right now compared to the bullshit I’ve had to put up with in the past twenty-four hours!”_

 _//“White shrouds?”//_ A pause. _//“You saw night doctors?”//_

“Are you giving me a car or not?” Tops screams into the phone.

Virgil makes a noise in his throat and then, _//“Don’t move. I’m sending a car.”//_  It sounds like it physically pains Virgil to not be a complete douchebag for once.

Tops shuts the burner phone and returns to where Prospect is. He drags the gremlin—who is still ridiculously heavy—toward the main road that the human trucks move in and out of the landfill. There are no stray in the wasteland tonight or not any that wish to interact with them. Tops sits near a pile of broken lawn furniture and waits.

They don’t have to wait long. A rusty spectacle of a car arrives thirty minutes later, driven by two gremlin. The gremlins don’t show any concern for Prospect. They just grab Tops and him and toss them in the back seat like luggage. Tops is too tired to complain. He shuts his eyes, finally lulled into an exhausted sleep.

When Tops sleeps, he is a crow chick again. He sits around the sod house fire pit, pretending to sleep with his siblings in a pile of warmth and down. He listens to the echoing argument of his mothers in the curtained bedroom while the winds of winter howl outside, rattling the windows. He knows not what the nocturnal arguments are about, only that they are intense. His young mind picks out two words: “wasteland” and “forget”.

What has been forgotten, only the mothers know. For in the morning, there is no discussion of what takes place in the night. The siblings eat and want to know when the snow will stop falling, when spring will return, and if they can play with the other children. Tops knows only of the night and what lies beyond the labyrinthine lowly hinterlands.

Tops wakes in a strange bed with too many blankets. The air smells of sugar and cocoa, overpowering the common scent of dust. He sits up in the bed and feels every muscle ache with each turn. Even breathing left a dull throb in his body.

The room is too spacious to have been a break room; maybe in the past it was used for projectors since there are curtained areas that are now windows. There is a desk in a corner with various appliances on it: microwave, k-cup machine, and laptop. Virgil sits at next to the bed, texting on an expensive cellphone with his long legs folded up to his chest. He wears a baggy shirt that’s too long with black bats patterned on it and annoying pastel necklaces and armbands.

Virgil does not look up from his texting. “Do you know you occasionally change shape in your sleep?”

“Do you know you look like a Claire’s Accessories threw up?” Tops asks.

Virgil spins in the chair, swinging his legs out and landing a heel in Tops’ stomach. Tops’ gasps, feeling the hard impact of the other fae in his abdomen. Tops snarls a curse from the impact, wincing on the bed.

Virgil keeps texting, adding, “We’re going to have to work on your workplace attitude.”

Tops shoves Virgil’s leg away but doesn’t move. He aches too much to flee and there’s no place to truly run from Virgil. The door is on the far side of the room and he’s certain that Virgil has his own way of locking them both in if he so wishes it.

“If you detonated the orb doing that, I’ll haunt you.” Tops growls.

“Oh, that? I already removed it.” Virgil tilts his head, looking at Tops with his clear blue eyes. “Are you so used to having things up your ass that you didn’t notice its absence?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Virgil stands, walking over to the desk. He removes two k-cups from the cardboard container. “That’s not a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ so…”

Tops then makes another alarming realization. “Where the fuck are my clothes?”

“I removed them.” Virgil says over the noise of the machine’s brewing. “They were gross, you were gross, and I didn’t want things to be made more gross so removing and burning was an improvement.” He goes into a desk drawer, taking out two mugs, fixing the coffee with cream and sugar, and returns to Tops’ side.

Tops’ cautiously takes the mug. He wants to refuse but he’s too tired and hungry. He sips at the beverage, wondering the last time he had a drink hot. 

“Why didn’t you warn us about the night doctors?” Tops asks.

“I can’t warn you about the future.” Virgil sits in the chair, sipping his coffee, “I’ve heard of them but never seen them this far north.” He raises an eyebrow, “Interesting Prospect and you survived. Most Seelie that encounter them end up in ribbons, or at least with some parts missing.”

Tops scowls. “I’m not Seelie.”

“Not Seelie. Definitely not Unseelie. Not a lowly either.” Virgil puts down his mug on the nightstand with a grin. “What are you?”

“Nobody.”

“I beg to differ.”

Virgil’s body is young but his eyes are old—centuries older than anyone should be. They gaze at Tops and he feels a chill go through him, the same chill he felt in the cellar full of dead angels and their bottled blood. He expects Virgil to have another smart ass comment but instead Virgil stands. He grabs the blanket and in one tug, yanks it off Tops’ body. Then he climbs onto the bed and crawls toward Tops’. Tops should move away but he’s frozen. The other fae moves close to him, sits in his lap with a wicked grin.

“What are you doing?” Tops asks.

“Letting you know how pleased I am.” Virgil purrs. His spider-like fingers stroke Tops’ face. “You’re more precious than I thought you were, Tops. Topper Emere.”

“You know my name?” Tops whispers.

“A mage by any other name will still do magic.” Virgil rests his fingers on Tops’ bottom lip. He moves a single finger inside, smiling. “Or that’s what you’ve proven to me. You’ve done _very_ good, Tops. That’s why you get a reward.”

Tops hates it when he shudders. He can’t even vaguely recall a time when he was praised for his work. Most people scoff at him or are mildly indifferent as long as they get their chemical and herbal fixes. As for the others he deals with, he’d be lucky not to be spat on or receive a broken arm.

Virgil’s fingers are in his mouth and he doesn’t complain about it. He wraps his lips around them, teasing the digits with his tongue and making sure they’re wet. It makes the next step far easier when Virgil has his fingers pressed up against Tops’ hole. Tops bites the pillow, digging his fangs in deep as Virgil explores him. Tops tries to bite back each moan but Virgil coaxes them out, fingers working over Tops’ prostate until he finally caves in.

He doesn’t climax though. Virgil grasps him by the sac before he can.

“No.” Virgil orders.

“But--” Tops whines.

“Not yet.” Virgil says and he refuses to stop stroking and rubbing inside of Tops’.

“I need to--” Tops gasps.

“I’m sure you can control it.” Virgil has a menacing grin now. “You had all that practice, after all.”

Tops curses Virgil’s name and his descendants but he doesn’t cum. By some miracle, he doesn’t cum until Virgil has his dick inside of him all the way to the hilt. In the past, Tops would have thought Virgil’s smaller size would have left him unsatisfied. The opposite is true. Virgil knows how to use his dick skillfully, using rapid shallow strokes to keep him going. Tops is soon crying out for Virgil to go harder and faster but Virgil never does.

“It’s not a race.” Virgil says.

“Fuck you!” Tops screams. 

“Maybe some other time?” Virgil snickers.

The snark just won’t stop, even when Virgil’s words are broken up with his own desperate panting. Tops starts to think that Virgil had a whole standup routine planned just for the joy of insulting Tops all while Tops gasps, clasped around his dick.

Tops only cums when Virgil wants him to. Even if it’s a reward, he still has to work for it like any whore. Tops is exhausted and spent both emotionally and physically after Virgil has his way with him, milking him for all he is worth. The fae shapeshifter can hardly move. Even though Tops is tired and can’t move and is spent with Virgil and his seed mixed on his quivering flesh, he inhales slowly and still has words to say to the other fae.

The ceiling is a spatter painting of cracks and mold, the only reminder of where Tops is despite the scenery. He lies on the bed while Virgil crawls away from him. Even after a round of sweaty and exhausting sex, he still looks pristine. The fae’s face is still flushed though, made more obvious with his paleness. The skin color would have Virgil think he’s Unseelie, but no. That broad nose and cottony hair is a trait belonging only to Seelie aristocrats.

“But why angels?” Tops asks.

Virgil stops and looks at him over the shoulder. He has a small smile on his face.

“Why not?” he whispers back.  

Tops can think of a million reasons why not but he can’t be bothered to list them all. He lies back down, still exhausted from his misadventure. Virgil goes to the desk to type on the laptop and plot further as a good crime boss does. Tops listens to police sirens and the nightly hum of business on his precarious empire. He shuts his eyes and thinks of being a crow chick, living with his siblings under the watchful eye of his raccoon and snake mother. He thinks of the tale his raccoon mother spun around the fireplace of the wasteland and the lost soul within it.

Then Tops no longer dreams of being a child. He only sees the black creature of the junkyard and its sickle smile. 

 


	2. Folkloric Footnotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's learn a bit more about the fae, shall we?

**[1] casinos:** Fun fact: Massachusetts has been arguing about building gambling casinos since 1983. Its only now in 2017 that an actual casino is being built.

 **[2] fracking:** Or hydraulic fracturing as its commonly known, is a very controversial technique that is waaaaay to long and complicated for me to explain right here. It’s a longstanding issue in America but its especially tense in New England, where it’s at odds with the booming green industry.

 **[3] paper mills:** With the vast amount of rivers and trees, paper was big business in New England. A lot of the mills are gone now but there are still entire industrial districts that are full of empty mills. Google ‘Holyoke paper mills’ if you want to see more.   

 **[4] tengu:** A Japanese folkoric demon that has both human and bird features. Most popular depictions of them have a red face, a long nose, and wings. American tengu are very bred down from their Japanese cousins, having shrunken wings and barely red skin.

 **[5] hulder:** Another one of the ‘supernatural wives’ types, these fae originate from Scandinavian. They are usually found in mines and caves and the only thing distinguishing them from regular humans are their tails and open holes on their backs. American hulder tend to have darker complexions and are far shorter than the Scandinavian ones.  

 **[6] blue oni:** Another folkloric demon from Japanese mythology, oni have a variety of skin colors but blue and red are the most common. American oni are often confused with rakshasa, whom they often intermarry with.

 **[7] rakshasa:** A folkloric demon, this time from Hindu mythology. Like the oni, there are many different depictions of them. American rakshasa are often confused for oni, whom they tend to intermarry with.   

 **[8] Queen Titania:** Although made famous by Shakespeare, Titania’s first mention goes back to the Ancient Greeks. As Titania is more European lore, most American fae only know her from human stories.

 **[9] bluesie:** Fae refer to all pornographic media as ‘bluesies’ but the term is a nickname for a Tijuana bible. Tijuana bibles were small porn comics sold in the US during the Great Depression. They usually featured well known characters of the time like Popeye or Dick Tracey.

 **[10] jersey devil:** In American folklore, this creature was first reported in the early 20 th century and is said to inhabit the Pine Barrens of Southern New Jersey. For American fae, jersey devils are one of the most common and can switch between humanoid and beastly forms.   

 **[11] yemaja:** The name of a goddess in African mythology but the word also refers to any mermaid or mermaid-like being. Most mermaid and aquatic fae in North America immigrated from Africa, likely following boats during the Middle Passage.

 **[12] Cape Cod:** Cape Cod, the eastern and most oceanic part of Massachusetts, has its own folklore pertaining to the beaches, oceans, and marshlands. It is well known for its expensive beachfront property and being the most weather vulnerable part of the state, hampered by constant floods and hurricanes. 

 **[13] Oliver Twist:** In the quartet of fictional orphans, Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist is the most pathetic. Everything terrible can and will happen to Oliver. If you’re an American kid, you’ve likely read his story or seen one of the many hundreds of adaptations.

 **[14] Tom Sawyer:** America’s answer to Oliver Twist, Tom Sawyer is well known for three things: tricking people into whitewashing his aunt’s fence, looking for treasure, and pretending to be dead because he’s a little shit.

 **[15] Huckleberry Finn:** Tom’s companion who was beloved enough to get his own story. While Tom represents childhood mischief, Huck’s personality is that of the pre-Civil War South, from his ideas about slavery to his reliance on superstition and supernatural solutions to his problems. I honestly thought Huck was a more interesting character than Tom.

 **[16] Anne of Green Gables/Anne Shirley:** Out of all the literary orphans, Anne is likely the only well known female. Anne’s personality is that of cheer and determination, lighting up the lives of those around her and simultaneously refusing to take people’s shit. _Green Gables_ is the first book in a looooong series but the one most associated with the character. Also, the story is Canadian in origin, which I just learned. So, that’s neat, eh?  

 **[17] Aesop:** If you’re an American kid, its likely you’ve heard one of Aesop’s many fables or read about them. They’re inescapable. For me, a lot of Aesop’s tales were doled out via _The Book of Virtues_ by William J. Bennett. Don’t read it.

 **[18] Cadillac:** Despite the American automobile industry hiccupping during the 2000s, this luxury car brand is still associated with high status and quality. Cars are a big deal for American fae and those who live in the colonies just _love_ to joyride in some poor mayfly’s vehicle.   

 **[19] Bridgewater Triangle:** The Bermuda Triangle isn’t the only American place of weirdness. Southeastern Massachusetts has the Bridgewater Triangle, which is home to the sight of everything strange, from bigfoot to thunderbirds. For fae, the Bridgewater Triangle is associated more with the organized crime family than the location.    

 **[20] airplane gremlin:** Aircraft or machine gremlins have been around since the dawn of aviation, but stories about them were popularized during World War II. For fae, airplane gremlins are just another racial derivative of oni, rakshasa, jersey devil, and tengu (thus their wings).

 **[21] the Ritz:** The Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company is a luxury hotel chain in the US belonging to Marriott International. It still exists, but its not really as popular as it used to be. You’d probably have trouble finding one nowadays.

 **[22] Loveland frog/Loveland lizard:** A cryptid from Ohio, many people argue if this is a frog-man, frog humanoid, or just a giant frog wandering around the woods. For fae, most Loveland frogs/lizards are associated with the Unseelie Court’s reptilians, though not all of them are.

 **[23] zombie dust:** Zombie are undead people common to American media, but in reality, most zombies are just the sorry remains of those who have ingested or inhaled ‘zombie powder’ or ‘zombi dust’. The actual ingredients of zombie dust are disputed. Check out _The Serpent and the Rainbow_ novel if you want to learn a lot more.

 **[24] Connecticut River:** The Connecticut River is the longest river in New England and also one of the widest. As it was one of the first places to first be settled by Dutch colonists, it is home to many local legends from cavemen to ghostly sightings.  

 **[25] mutant trolley/mutant cars:** Mutant vehicles are a feature of the American festival, Burning Man. The distinction between art cars and mutant vehicles is rather blurry but the point is style over efficiency. American fae have long since bucked the trend of keeping fantastical horses and now prefer to have art commissioned vehicles. The crazier, the better.

 **[26] Dahl:** Roald Dahl was a well known author of children’s literature, like _Matilda_ and _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._ Dahl is credited with popularizing the concept of airplane gremlins. Among fae, he is considered a great writer and some gremlins view him as a saint.  

 **[27] grassmen:** Another Ohio Cryptid, this ape-like cryptid is said to live in the grasslands and is well known for being loud and hairy. Among fae, grassmen are bred down from the larger and more aggressive sasquatches.

 **[28] Kate Bender:** One of the members of the Bloody Benders. The Benders were a family of serial killers that murdered travelers in 19 th century Kansas. There’s a lot of folklore and legend surrounding them. For fae, Kate Bender is a traveler’s boogeyman.

 **[29] Black Dahlia:** Also known as Elizabeth Short, the Black Dahlia was a famous murder victim found in Los Angeles during the 1940s. There’s a lot of folklore surrounding her death. For fae, her killer is another boogeyman.

 **[30] Lizzie Borden:** From Massachusetts, Lizzie Borden allegedly killed her father and stepmother during the late 19 th century. Borden was acquitted but there are many people who think she’s guilty, even today.

 **[31] H.H. Holmes:** Dubbed America’s first serial killer, H.H. Holmes killed 27 people (at the _least)_ during late 19th century Chicago. He even designed his home for it, causing it to be dubbed the ‘Murder Castle’.

 **[32] Greenbrier Ghost:** Also known as Elva Zona Heaster, she was murdered by her husband during the late 19 th century but became famous as a ghost in  Greenbrier County, West Virginia.

 **[33] Boston Strangler:** The unknown murderer of 13 women during 1960s Boston. There are many theories about their identity, but nothing has been proven so far.

 **[34] Werewolf of Wysteria:** Also known as Albert Fish, he went under many monikers. Fish is likely the most infamous serial killer of the early 20 th century, to the point where the number of his victims are unknown. Look him up if you want to know more. I _wouldn’t_ suggest it.

 **[35] Liver-eating Johnson:** Also known as John Jeremiah Johnston, he was a mountain man who (allegedly) cannibalized his enemies, namely Native American. There’s multiple accounts of his life and no one is really sure which is accurate and which is just bluster.

 **[36] The Big E:** Also called the Eastern States Exposition, this is the largest state fair in New England and features a variety of music, attractions, and animals. Its most famous for its strange foods and backing up traffic for the locals.

 **[37] Night doctors:** Also called night riders or night witches, this piece of folklore is sadly based on truth. Hooded figures would torment slaves and freed African-Americans, killing them and selling their bodies to dissection halls or robbing African-American graves.

 **[38] Claire’s Accessories:** Also called Claire’s, this store sells obnoxious jewelry and accessories to teenage girls. I love everything about it. 

 **[39] Dover Demon:** Almost forgot about this one! The dover demon was a large-headed, red-eyed creature spotted in Dover, Massachusetts during the 1970s. As they were only seen once, very little is known about them aside from their small body and pale skin.


End file.
